Monday, September 4, 2017

Twin Peaks: The Return

I want to say that the finale of Twin Peaks: The Return was flawless. In fact, I've been saying that throughout the show's much belated but (nearly) right-on-schedule Season 3. 

Nostalgia is a blinding lie, and that theme could not have been made more apparent in the 18 Parts written by David Lynch and Mark Frost. Delivering on nostalgia's expectations is also furiously obnoxious. How many reboots, revivals, and continuations have come and gone to much ballyhoo, only to be immediately forgotten? The X-Files jumps to mind. 

Whether Lynch and Frost delivered anything approaching perfection, only history will say. It's knee-jerk for critics to applaud the austere, especially when it's incomprehensible. It's not that they don't want to look stupid for admitting they don't understand what they see, nearly all of them did just that. But in getting caught up in the excitement of something so strange and new, it's easy to ignore or forgive the glaring possibility that Twin Peaks: The Return simply might not have been that great.

There are easily as many forgettable award winners as their are poorly crafted revivals; still, regardless of what The Return turns out to be, it was nonetheless utterly unforgettable.

What The Return certainly got right was its eschewing of nostalgia and our fondness for the past, but also its pointed commentary on modern technology's intrusion on our lives. In the latter's regard, Lynch lays out a contradiction: his own fondness for the past. Throughout Season 3, we see it everywhere. Complex machinery, exaggerated and superfluous, has so infiltrated the FBI's hotel room that paintings have been removed and haphazardly propped along the floor. The Palmer house, once meticulously groomed in 80s era pastels has been invaded by a bloated flatscreen television. Sarah stares into it, unable to turn away, just like the young couple mercilessly devoured by their own siren the moment they turn away. 

Nowhere in Season 3 is our frustration with 21st Century trappings more literal than outside the Double R Diner where a middle aged woman fumes in fit of road rage, entirely unconcerned with the violence she's just seen. If we're not staring at a screen, we simply don't know how to behave. The young lovers were decapitated for ignoring their's, the lady in Twin Peaks was vomited on by a zombie child when her evening failed to meet her expectations. 

The go-go-go lifestyle of today is debilitatingly fast, but also ironically slows us down by forcing us into a void of ones and zeros. Reconciling that juxtaposition is maddening. David Lynch clearly wants us to be as pissed off about this as he is, and honestly I am, and for that I did like The Return.

Despite David Lynch's aversion to fan service and the nostalgia of the Twin Peaks we grew up on, he has a fondness for a simpler time and place, and looks to embrace times unfettered by distractions. It's hard to imagine someone so prolific wouldn't recognize this disconnect. More likely, he's angry, and wants us to be angry about the same things. Lynch has always had an odd relationship with technology. Electricity is the root of so much he does, and it's as much his vehicle as it is his blame. Some have even suggested he hates technology (even though he seems to have embraced CGI in The Return.) Why wouldn't a Montana boy who found his footing in cinema by being thrust into the grimy streets of Philadelphia in the late 1960s? The post industrial wasteland of his one-time neighborhood echoes in everything that he does.


But beyond what was right about Season 3, are the many wrongs we've overlooked. Waiting for 27 years, being teased along the way, always hoping but never knowing if the story of Twin Peaks would be concluded, we've ignored a lot of the story's fatal flaws. Namely, that this wasn't a conclusion to Twin Peaks.

If The Return had ended with the climactic moment Sarah violently smashed her daughter's portrait with a magnum bottle, we'd be left bewildered, but with a spat between two characters central to the story, two characters from Twin Peaks. Closing the series with Dale Cooper and someone who looks like Laura Palmer would seem like the logical way to close the book, but in the end, neither of them seemed like Dale or Laura. They were strangers trapped in a time loop, begging us to wonder if Dale sent his tulpla to console with Diane and find Laura, while his real self went to live happily ever with the Jones' in a blissful suburban dream, where Janey-E still uses a rotary phone. 

What is Rancho Rosa if not today's Twin Peaks, replete with its recession-era isolation and emptiness? There's even great cherry pie downtown.

Part 18 went long, not unusual in a show where a French stranger spent three full minutes leaving the room. But it went long in a way uncharacteristic of Twin Peaks, even this telling of it. It turned into The Dale and Diane Story, or perhaps the new story of Richard and Linda. When the two drove across the threshold, another story began, and we entered Lost Highway. Laura Dern is an amazing actress, and her character Diane - both Dianes - was fleshed out, established, and dynamic. But Diane was never more than a tape recorder. 

27 years ago, there was no indication that Dale and Diane had any sort of romantic relationship, or even tensions. Many of us imagined her a stereotypical secretary, someone who probably looked a lot like Mrs. Poole. Others assumed "Diane" was just a name for Cooper's recorded diary, the doppleganger to Laura's written one. 

Laura Dern's Diane, smashing as she was as a standalone character, was an unnecessary excuse for Lynch to employ one of his many muses, one ABC couldn't have afforded back in 1990. When the blinders were removed from Naido's face, why didn't she have the face of Nae Yuuki, the Japanese actress who played her so prophetically? As Cooper's own secretary, it's entirely possible that Gordon, Albert, and Tammy had never seen her face. How amazing would it have been to see their reactions when they found out that the stoic Diane they'd come to know and mildly hate was someone else entirely?

But Dern - along with other Lynch favorites - overshadowed the characters that made Twin Peaks what it was, and the very actors responsible for Twin Peaks ever returning, many of whom are among the most unappreciated in Hollywood. Like so many of them, Yuuki would have been a welcome unknown had we ever seen her eyes.

It's upsetting to see actors like Madchen Amick, Sherilyn Fenn, Sheryl Lee, Harry Goaz, Dana Ashbrook, Kimmy Robertson, and other veterans gushing on social media about what an honor it was to be reunited with the cast of Twin Peaks, and David Lynch, again. Meanwhile actors like Laura Dern and Naomi Watts have commented so little, as if Twin Peaks wasn't so much an experience as it was a paycheck. Yet it's those former celebrities, some who came out of retirement to reprise their roles for the sake of the story, who are responsible for Season 3 ever seeing the light of day. David Lynch may have been in the director's chair, but even as an artist he had a human obligation to those who originally made the show a memorable one. 

Throughout Season 3, two television shows seemed to be taking place, and somewhere around the halfway mark we began to expect them to eventually converge. This didn't happen until Part 17, and that's when The Gordon and Albert Show turned into a story about the apparent unrequited love between Cooper and his secretary, making all of those scenes between the townspeople of Twin Peaks, even the Bookhouse Boys, seem shoehorned in for the sake of the nostalgic fan-service Lynch was obviously so bent on avoiding. 

Maybe Lynch's ultimate message to his audience was in Diane's unexpectedly cold demeanor: "Fuck you." As a director who reluctantly entered the world of television only to have it frustratingly meet his expectations, one who had been ardently vocal about never wanting to return to Twin Peaks; maybe The Return was all just a middle finger to those who pushed him back into the small screen, even the actors, leaving us with the story he really wants to tell, the story of Richard and Linda.

I'll say what I said when "Laura" screamed and the lights went out, "Fuck you, David Lynch. I love you."

Sunday, July 9, 2017

Twin Peaks: The Return

Two weeks ago, Showtime aired Part 8 of Twin Peaks: The Return, and what was arguably the strangest hour in American television history. There is nothing ordinary about Twin Peaks, and there never has been. For the past decade we've seen numerous television shows resurrected, either paying homage to the nostalgia of their era and characters, or rebooting the plot altogether. For the most part, The Return has done neither of these things. After a long hiatus from the small screen, the first Part of Twin Peaks: The Return picked up in present day, just as Laura Palmer promised. 



On the surface, Twin Peaks is a lot like the many shows it inspired. Like Bates Motel or Hemlock Grove, it is a story about a small town's quirky inhabitants and seedy underbelly surrounded by a more dramatic and serious plot. Like Mad Men, it is steeped in midcentury Americana. Like The Killing, it is about a murder that rocks the Pacific Northwest. 

In 1990, Twin Peaks changed television forever. The shows it inspired have borrowed its mystique to enhance their cohesive narratives. But those directors and writers David Lynch and Mark Frost inspired stopped short of the risks that made Twin Peaks so groundbreaking. That's how artistic inspiration tends to go: borrow the pieces from outsiders that can be mass produced and sell. And I mean that in the most respectful way. Post Twin Peaks television has produced some breathtaking shows and exposed ordinary couch potatoes to art they'd otherwise cast aside. But Lynch's portfolio, The Return being no exception, is classic Art House Cinema. It's slow, sometimes tediously so, yet never for a vain or superficial pretense. 

What sets Twin Peaks, and Lynch's body of work, apart from the artists who love him so much is his ability to force us to dig deep within ourselves throughout these long pauses and confusing vignettes. Watching a Lynch film, and Part 8 of The Return, is more like absorbing an art exhibit than watching a movie or television show. Lynch and Frost have offered their viewers plenty of eye candy in The Return, and I suspect Part 8 was all Lynch, but those visuals are murky, dark, and laden with obscure background noises that beg us to pull from our brains what lurks in the distance. It's like getting lost in a really well written book or staring at a Jackson Pollack painting for an hour. 



To succeed in something so visionary is a rare feat amongst today's abundance of quality programming. For most directors to even attempt what Lynch and Frost have done with The Return, at best they'd hope to be buried somewhere on Netflix. To find viewers, most directors need to provide something that allows us to tune in and check out, in the most simplistic way. 

In the post-now-extant Twin Peaks realm, directors have managed to do this with wild success. The Handmaid's TaleSense8, and The Sopranos have captivated audiences, but Lynch has created something in The Return that will make cinematic historians look back on those shows with the same regard they looked at cop dramas and soap operas after the release of Twin Peaks' 1990 pilot. 

One could also argue that Lynch's following, often misdescribed as "cult," gives him the credibility Hollywood studios need to grant him carte blanche. Over the past two decades we've seen fantastic shows, well written, with extensive character development, but they all stop short of offering a narrative outside the confines of studio executives and test audiences. Netflix gave Sense8 a lot of leeway, but it's not hard to imagine executives asking the Wachowskis to reign it in, or what they could have delivered had they been given the same creative license Showtime gave Lynch and Frost. 

Who knows? When the red curtains close and The Return receives its final accolades, Netflix might be wishing they'd allowed the Wachowskis to be as daring as they could have been. 

However it happens; one style of art, whatever the medium, can only persist for so long before its saturation becomes mundane, and even the best become boring. The Renaissance didn't last forever, nor impressionism, modernism, or postmodernism. Like any art, television has to evolve. Unlike its contemporaries, The Return is not mere commentary. Finally, something new has been born. 



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The other day a friend told me he wanted to start watching The Return, and asked if he needed to watch the first two seasons of Twin Peaks to understand it. I didn't know how to answer. Sure, watching its original run might explain why the series exists, it'll offer some background on a few of the characters we've seen on Showtime, but it won't make The Return any less puzzling. That's not to say it's nonsensical. As bizarre as Part 8 was, as an origin story, it brought 27 years of televised schizophrenia to its most plausible place, though we could easily find ourselves confused once again tonight.

The best advice I could offer was to watch the 1990 pilot. If he likes it, keep watching. If he still likes it, watch the big screen prequel, Fire Walk With Me. And if that doesn't turn him off, watch The Return. And with regard to all of the above, immerse yourself and discard any preconceived notions of what television should be. 

I'm not averse to plugging my favorite shows. I turned my Peaks-curious friend on to The Handmaid's Tale and Sense8, and he was inquiring about The Return because he liked those shows so much. To me, Lynch's work is beautiful. From Blue Velvet to Inland Empire, he speaks to the rodents crawling around in my brain. I've found myself a reluctant Dune apologist at times. I even watched The Cleveland Show during Lynch's hiatus from cinema just to hear his voice as Seth MacFarlane's answer to The Simpsons' Mo Szyslak, a cranky bartender from the south side of Virginia who sounds exactly like Gordon Cole. 

I'm leery of suggesting anything directed by David Lynch to anyone looking for strong plot structure and a concrete narrative. But that leeriness comes from a fear of turning anyone off from Art House Cinema. The Return needs to be viewed in the right setting, and in the right state of mind. 

Twin Peaks, in the '90s and especially now, is not a show to binge watch. For a while I wondered why Lynch didn't choose a format like Netflix or Amazon for Season 3. Thirty seconds into The Return provided the answer. The viewing journey is part of Twin Peaks' artistry, with a week or weeks between Parts necessary to analyze and internalize what we just watched. Released at once, The Return would have already been forgotten, only recognized for its brilliance twenty or thirty years from now. 

Netflix, Amazon, and Hulu might seem like television's new format, but they're just conventional programming formatted in a way that allows us to watch our favorite shows for hours on end, particularly shows that prompt us to use the word "addictive." The Return couldn't have been released in one lump sum and shouldn't be watched on a mobile device. It's addictive, but it's meant to be absorbed. 

If one were to watch The Return's 18 hours in one sitting, it would need to be in an Art Deco theater like the one in Part 8, with plenty of lengthy intermissions. Bring snacks, a pillow, and toothpaste. You'll be there for a while.



Still, Lynch and Frost haven't completely eschewed modern formatting despite Lynch's onetime disdain for the small screen. As a show streaming on Showtime Anytime, viewers can rewind to catch things they missed or pause for reflection. Lynch's presence on Showtime proves he doesn't truly hate modern technology, only the aptly ridiculed facets of it: the things we miss while binge watching from a tablet.

I'm guilty of the trappings of today's modern access to programming. Even watching the best streaming television has to offer, I'll find myself distracted by an actor I recognize but can't name. I'll pull out my phone and go to IMDB, then go to Wikipedia when I realize that, say, Vera Farmiga is Taisa Farmiga's older sister. By then I've missed too much to rewind, and even if I didn't I've been removed from experiencing the show. Today's writers and directors account for this, and by the end of each episode we still know what has happened despite our 21st Century distractions. But this just means modern programming consists of good television, not great art, not enough to hold our addled attention spans. Mad Men would have been groundbreaking in 1990, but after the premier of The Return, it's simply good TV that follows in its origin's footsteps. 

Still, I've returned to shows like Sense8 and Bates Motel in a less binge-watch state of mind to find there to be so much more than narrative, figurative cockroaches lurking in the distance indicative of an art deserving so much more critical attention. Twenty years from now we'll wonder why we rushed through these shows so fast, that the journey is every bit as beautiful as the end. 


Sense8 was never a sci-fi romp trudging to an end, it was an experimental work of art begging us to explore our 21st Century notion of humanity...and it was beautiful.

In eight Parts, I haven't once pulled out my phone to Shazam a song or gotten up to make more popcorn. They have entranced their audience like they did 27 years ago, again with something entirely new. Hopefully its hype, positive reviews, and allure will renew a popular interest in truly outsider and independent filmmaking. In some ways, the internet already is cinema's new Art House. Perhaps The Return will prompt audiences to seek out what it has to offer. 


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Ten years ago I moved into a small house in a forgotten area of Center City Philadelphia. What was left of the neighborhood had been boxed in by a sunken expressway and a convention center. Surrounded by parking lots, the only immediate semblance of urbanism lied in Chinatown to the east and Broad Street to the west. But within spitting distance, separated by the cavernous expressway, was the post-industrial Callowhill neighborhood.

Lynch studied at the nearby Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Art on North Broad Street in the late '60s and early '70s. Despite my Lynchian affinity for the artist's work, when I moved here a decade ago I didn't know this, or that the site of his home was just a block away. When PAFA put Lynch's The Unified Field on display and invited him to speak a few years ago, I discovered just how much this neighborhood had inspired him. PAFA'a rare, preserved example of Frank Furness architecture is a sharp juxtaposition of the post-industrial Callowhill neighborhood, magnified even more in the grimy years Lynch spent here. 

Lynch has stated, "Philadelphia, more than any filmmaker, influenced me. It's the sickest, most corrupt, decaying, fear-ridden city imaginable...I felt like I was in constant danger. But it was so fantastic at the same time." To hear him talk about Philadelphia is something that resonates reluctantly with longtime residents. His first apartment in the city was across the street from the morgue, next to a long gone diner called Pop's, possibly the inspiration for the diner in Part 8.

"The area had a great mood - factories, smoke, railroads, diners, the strangest characters, the darkest nights. The people had stories etched in their faces, and I saw vivid images -plastic curtains held together with Band-Aids, rags stuffed in broken windows," Lynch said.



It's impossible to listen to the artist wax poetic about Philadelphia without having visions of his first feature film, 1977's Eraserhead. Callowhill's dystopian hellscape was every artist's greatest dream. As nightmarish as it must have been for a student from Montana - his windows shot out, robbed twice, his car stolen, and the chalk outline of a kid down the street that lingered for five days - it was an environment that forces an artist to create. Despair can be an ultimate inspiration, and given Philadelphia's conflation as the nation's birthplace and its sordid past, it's not surprising that Lynch fixates on disjointed and paradoxical Americana. 

Two weeks ago I moved to Callowhill. Although I'd worked here for a decade and lived a block away for just as long, I rarely ventured north of the expressway at night. The past few nights have given me the chance to wander and explore, and reflect on what Lynch must have seen, and how much has changed. 

When Lynch was schooled here, the neighborhood's lofty apartment buildings were factories and warehouses. It was full of textile factories and print-shops that closed promptly at five and were silent on the weekends. Throughout the evenings, trains leaving Reading Terminal headed north towards the suburbs rattling the streets below the now-abandoned Reading Viaduct. East of 9th Street, the belch of bulldozers crept ever closer as the Callowhill East Redevelopment Project began its failed wholesale demolition. During the Industrial Revolution, Philadelphia was The Workshop of the World, and Callowhill is its legacy.

Just below Vine Street, a wide avenue at the time, was The Furnished Room District, home to transients, brothels, and flophouses. Today it's been all but destroyed. Lynch's first home in Philadelphia is now a U-Haul parking lot, and the morgue across the street is Roman High School's annex. Local Lynch fans have sought to rename Callowhill, "Eraserhood," a nod to the film inspired by the area, a nod the humble director would likely react to by taking a puff from his cigarette, pointing it towards the ashtray, and bluntly changing the subject. Some of the best artists are incredibly reserved. They don't seek praise, they reluctantly take interviews, and simply enjoy toiling away on their craft. 

To Lynch, this neighborhood was probably a place without a name, and the built embodiment of what he's sought to create over the past forty years. His descriptions of Callowhill, like his works of art, are surreal. Callowhill's history should be viewed the way we watch Twin Peaks: Resigned to let it be the maddening, indescribable confusion that it was.

My new apartment is nicer than anywhere I've ever lived, perhaps even the farm where I was raised. But its a symptom of the dreaded g-word and a symbol of the neighborhood's forgotten past. My old house just south of here, a tiny trinity that hasn't been renovated since electricity and plumbing were installed, is more attune to Lynch's Philadelphia than the converted warehouse I live now. And like Lynch's Callowhill, its days are numbered. 


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Stating he'll never do another feature film, Part 8 of The Return may have brought Lynch's body of work full circle by echoing Eraserhead and his years here in Philadelphia. But it also closes Callowhill's chapter in American art history. Today's Callowhill is a far cry from Lynch's, retaining the tokens of its industrial past, but very little heart. 

The abandoned Reading Viaduct is being transformed into a park, its factories have been converted into lofts. The neighborhood is far from clean, but with developers eyeing its remaining warehouses, it will be soon. Even its art scene has evolved in a more corporate manner. Co-working spaces have formally replaced the rogue studios once set up in former textile factories, and they're not cheap, with developers trying to capitalize on the Lynchian mood of the neighborhood by siphoning grants and endowments more frugally spent in Kensington, West Philly, or even Camden. Callowhill is now safe and dull, the city's trust funded youths free to walk their purebred dogs down its dankest alleys well past sundown. 


Like art, urbanism evolves in similar ways, and Callowhill's future will be one of panache and glam, not unlike Northern Liberties. New artists will lay down their roots on new frontiers north of Kensington. And one day, they too may look back on the grimy streets north of the CSX tracks - Heroin Alley - with the same kind of macabre glee Lynch found down here in the '60s and '70s. 

Today's Callowhill, its clash of beer gardens and gated parking with its lingering industrial squalor, is perhaps the neighborhood's best homage to Lynch's cinematic obsession with dualities.  


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A lot changed when Lynch and Frost launched Twin Peaks in 1990, and it's changing again with The Return. Viewers are finally eager to embrace something new from cinematic art, and I hope that desire finds its way back to Callowhill. When The Return's 18 hours are up and viewers begin to demand more from the art streaming off their screens, earnest creativity may return to places like Callowhill, even if it simply means decorating a loft with local works of art in lieu of prints from IKEA and Target.



Plenty of successfully ordinary things have emerged from America's most ordinary places, but when they emerge from the unordinary they tend to stick. Twin Peaks and Lynch's other cinematic masterpieces have found their rightful place in American Art History because - in part - they are the products of inspirationally unordinary environments. I truly hope the new residents buying real estate in Callowhill appreciate all the cinematic history that comes with it...and maybe, inspired by it, begin to look at this neighborhood with a renewed appreciation for the mystery that lingers in its murky corners. 

Saturday, July 8, 2017

21st Century Abandonment: The Viaduct's Forgotten Beer Garden

In 2011, the Philadelphia Horticultural Society launched its first Pop Up Garden at 20th and Market. Since then, the successful event has grown to include various locations throughout the city, this summer with one on South Street and another in University City. The popularity of PHS's beer gardens has spurred other organizations to follow suit, most notably the Delaware River Waterfront Corporation's Spruce Street Harbor Park, and its Winter and Summer Fests.

As destination attractions, these events bring communities throughout the city together and help fund organizations that largely rely on grants or donations. For years the DRWC has struggled with ways to attract people to the river, tourists and locals alike. The success of its own pop up parks has provided the answer, and they've taken it one step further at Pier 9, slated to become a combination of working art spaces, retail, and refreshment stands as Cherry Street Pier. Designed by Groundswell, the firm behind Spruce Street Harbor Park, Cherry Street Pier will be chock full of their signature shipping containers.

Whereas these pop up gardens have bolstered communities and non-profit organizations, they've also managed to generate redevelopment interest in the city's post-industrial infrastructure. Long the domain of urban explorers and graffiti artists, Cherry Street Pier's conversion of Pier 9 will allow the less adventurous an opportunity to cozy up to Philadelphia's awe inspiring industrial abandonment. Like Pier 9, PHS's Pop Up Garden below the abandoned Reading Viaduct last year was heavily used to market the relic's upcoming conversion into an elevated park. 

But with regard to PHS's Pop Up Viaduct Garden, there's just one problem: It's not reopening and it's still there.

You forgot some stuff.

To say the locals packing these beer gardens have short attention spans would be an understatement, and it's why the rotating model works so well. New Philadelphians in particular, have an almost tainted view of anything that existed before they moved here. They want things that are new, even when they're surrounded by the abandoned, but are especially enamored with trends. And right now, nothing's trendier than recycled shipping containers and drinking craft beer outside. 

But the rusting shipping containers below the Reading Viaduct point to the unfortunate side effect of this disposable mentality. Only abandoned a year, the orange shipping containers, empty bars, and rusted "VIADUCT" sign already blend seamless into the backdrop of the hulking viaduct. Now overgrown with weeds, one can assume this is why the garden was left behind. 

Rather than remove the garden, I can only guess that the PHS assumed no one would notice several tons of scrap metal in a neighborhood synonymous with post-industrial fallout. Or perhaps with the viaduct's park conversion underway, they left the garden behind as part of an anticipated construction zone. In other words, they figured no one would care about a little more garbage until the park is complete. Nonetheless, to leave two unused shipping containers behind to rot is counter to the principle of adaptive reuse. In some ways, it showcases hypocrisy in the idea: it's not adaptive use, just trendy tokenism. 

In all likelihood, the PHS just didn't think about it. But if they intend to be involved with the Reading Viaduct Park in any way, they need to be more cognizant of its Callowhill neighbors amongst whom they'll be conducting business. 

People live here, and while they live with plenty of blight and abandonment, they aren't simply waiting around for the Viaduct Park to solve it all. They live here today, and in today's Callowhill, the PHS has only added to the muck and grime. And being only a year old, from an organization whose sole mission it is to beautify Philadelphia's public spaces, the abandoned Viaduct Garden is an ironic kick to the gut for Callowhill from an organization that should know better. 

I'm not going to harp too much on it, because the PHS is (on most days) an upstanding beacon of philanthropy, and the neglected garden at 10th and Hamilton could be chalked up to an oversight. But as a new resident in Callowhill, one who honestly doesn't mind its ancient grit and grime, I will say this: Come get your shit.

Friday, March 10, 2017

"You left the bodies and you only moved the headstones!"

Finding forgotten cemeteries at construction sites in Philadelphia isn't as weird as in, say, Encino, California. Nevertheless, the creepy factor of a dozen or so skeletons and collapsed coffins is always headline worthy. And this week, a minor blizzard isn't what captured audiences, it was the First Baptist Church Burial Ground that PMC Property found near 2nd and Arch in Old City.

Last November, several bones and headstones had been uncovered at the site, but nothing to significantly halt construction. Yesterday's discovery was significantly more macabre and archeologists, including resources from the Mutter Museum, are working overtime to carefully remove as much as possible by tomorrow. 

What's of particular interest to archeologists is that this cemetery pre-dates the American Revolution, offering insight into a number of traditions, behavior, and activity of Colonial life in Philadelphia. Thousands of Colonial Americans are buried beneath our churches, but we don't routinely go digging into hallowed ground to run DNA tests on our ancestors. Digs like this - short as they may be - are rare opportunities that can lead to months, even years of research adding layers to the story of our Colonial roots. 

America's historic records are comparatively intact. Considering other countries have been far more ravaged by war and regime changes, we still retain a surprising amount of data from before the Revolution. Philadelphia, once the second largest city in the British Empire and the most prominent city in the Colonies, was keen on preserving information even dating back to the days of William Penn. The fact that we know this was the site of the First Baptist Church is a testament to the dedication of historians in a relatively new nation. 

We know that the church and its burial ground date to 1707, and we know why those bodies are there. That's where this story takes a bit of a bleak, albeit not unexpected turn. In the 1860s, these bodies were to be moved to Mount Moriah Cemetery in SW Philadelphia. Whether the headstones were moved we don't yet know, and may not ever know considering the condition of Mount Moriah. But we do know that the bodies were not.

That is literally the premise of the horror movie, Poltergeist.

"You left the bodies and you only moved the headstones!"

I got a sneak-peek, in that I snuck a peek under the fence. The bodies are under that tarp.

PMC Property seems to be taking this in stride. Even if their project doesn't become the most haunted new apartment building in Philadelphia, renting out luxury units over a cemetery might be a hard sell. After archeologists complete their studies, PMC will be paying to respectfully have the bodies interred in Mount Moriah, where they should have ended up 150 years ago. 

It's hard to say how or where, exactly. Mount Moriah Cemetery is dealing with its own neglect. The Philadelphia side of Mount Moriah, where these bodies were likely headed, was an abandoned haven for crime until it was taken over by the Friends of Mount Moriah a few years ago. Cleanup efforts have transformed the place into a wonderland of wild, but it's far from a traditional cemetery. If any of the bodies are ever identified, finding their headstones will be nearly impossible. 

For the time being, archeologists in Philadelphia and beyond are fixated on Old City, eagerly anticipating the stories these Colonial Philadelphians are waiting to tell. 

Thursday, October 6, 2016

Pettifoggery on Jeweler's Row

In the battle for Jeweler's Row, the gloves were off between Toll Brothers and the city's Preservation Alliance. Philadelphia has a storied history of shouting matches in and out of the courtroom with a few fistfights between council members taking place within its own chambers. 

The debate over what our city is and should be is deeply rooted going all the way back to the Founding Fathers bickering over the same for our new nation. Our skyline has risen, fashion has gotten a bit more practical, and the streets probably smell a little better. But when it comes to being an opinionated bunch, we're still Philadelphians at our core, apparent when one Toll Brothers' lawyer, Carl Primavera, uttered the words "pettifoggery" and "poppycock."

I honestly wish I had more free time to attend these sorts of meetings because they sound like a hoot. Then again, I enjoy the image in my head, one of a man who sounds like a dish at Olive Garden in Colonial garb, pointing an ivory handled cane at the Preservation Alliance and shouting words that send most reasonable people to Dictionary.com. But perhaps Primavera was making a point by using antiqued words to describe the acts of an antiquated organization. In this instance, the Preservation Alliance's actions were textbook obstructionist nonsense. 

Like every Philadelphian interested in salvaging our city's history, I too would like Jeweler's Row to live on. There's just one problem: Jeweler's Row - despite the t-shirts - isn't historic, at least it wasn't last week.


When Toll Brothers proposed a high-rise at the corner of 7th and Sansom, there was nothing stopping them. While activists managed to appeal the project, in the end the law as it is intended to work, won. Two hearings couldn't prove that these unprotected properties were protected because those charged with protecting our history failed to do so. At this point, no campaigning, signatures, or screaming will retroactively deem these buildings historic. 

It's easy to paint Toll Brothers the cold Scrooge McDuck paving over the city to create some facsimile of what once was there because they're known for naming their McMansion communities for the historic farms that they raze. Whether they've done anything wrong or immoral is irrelevant, they've done nothing unethical or illegal. They're developers, and developers are in the business of making money. Yet somehow, preservationists in one of the nation's most historic cities, can't grasp that. 

To read quotes and comments from the hearings, it's as if the historical community thinks the collective will of every nerd in the tristate area can save every one of our historic landmarks. But that's not how it works. To win your battles you don't just have to know who you're up against, you have to know how they operate and why. Toll Brothers - and every developer - has a clear agenda and business plan. Where are the Alliance's?

If any property should have served as a lesson, it should have been the Boyd Theater. It was a designated landmark, and through a technicality, only the facade was salvaged. Legally, that was a preservation victory because we managed to save what was legally protected. But to those who love history, it was a loss because we lost what was historic about the Boyd, it's auditorium. 

We should have learned our lesson: We can win battles in favor of historic preservation, but we need to make sure all unprotected landmarks are protected, inside and out when necessary. Jeweler's Row is just another unfortunate lesson, and whether it will be heeded remains to be seen. Will we fight to protect what's left of Jeweler's Row? Will we fight for a district? And will preservationists get out in front of other potential losses before this begins to unfold all over again?

With all the energy, resources, and money spent on the corner of 7th and Sansom, is Robinson's Department Store protected? Is Spring Garden's Church of the Assumption still under the wrecking ball? Are there any other 'Jeweler's Rows' out there that might make trendy residences for New Philadelphians? Because I can assure you those buildings and neighborhoods are already on the developers' radars, and firms like Toll Brothers are just waiting for their market research to tell them the time is right. 

Groups like the Preservation Alliance need to be doing their own market research, their own due diligence. If preservationists continue to fight for properties immediately after they've become profitable, at the eleventh hour, preservationists will always be playing defense. And considering how unprofitable preservation is, it will always be an uphill and rarely won fight. 

Sunday, September 25, 2016

#boycottwoodys

On Thursday, PhillyMag.com posted Ernest Owens' justifiably brutal takedown of the Gayborhood's popular Woody's nightclub over an apparent dress code that appears to be targeting men and women of color. It came about when Kenmar Jones was turned away at the door after performing with FringeArts for wearing sweatpants and sneakers. Vaguely worded or un-posted dress codes have been used for decades to target "urban" clientele by prohibiting everything from tracksuits to brand-specific items like Timberland boots, and this is hardly the first time Woody's has come under fire over its admission policies.

Jones' story echoes the tactics that inspired Chic's song, Le Freak which found its origins in a similar incident wherein the disco band was denied entry into Studio 54 despite an invite from Grace Jones. According to guitarist Nile Rogers and bassist Bernard Edwards, Chic promptly returned to their hotel on New Years of 1977 and wrote the song, only with its original lyrics substituting "freak out" with "fuck off." The story has become musical lore and a neat piece of trivia, but it speaks to a darker piece of Americana, one steeped in what's being referred to as covert racism, and Jones' own experience at Woody's is evidence that it is alive and well in Philadelphia.

Covert or overt, racism is racism. But the importance of distinguishing the two is that the former allows the offender to sidestep responsibility by blaming things like dress codes. The black hole of social media in Tweets and comments only enables the offense by further excusing it by crying "who wears sweatpants to a bar?"

Woody's is no exception when it comes to exclusionary and discriminatory entrance or ejection calls. Last year I saw a man booted from the club for being painted silver, on Halloween of all nights. The bouncer said there were concerns of the bar tops being marred in paint, but a few minutes before he was asked to leave he had kissed his girlfriend. It's rather ironic that Woody's, a gay bar that's become synonymous with straight bridal parties and frat house scavenger hunts, would ask a straight couple to leave because of a very brief moment of PDA, but that makes the venue's rules all the more frustrating. It also gives themselves a bit of slack when taking cash from hoards of straight women by allowing them to say, "remember when we threw out that straight guy?"

Nevertheless, there is a very real reason that gay bars typically don't enforce dress codes, and that's because their existence, the need for their existence, is already exclusionary in nature: they aren't for everyone. Gay bars are an alternative entertainment option for a still-marginalized segment of the population, the LGBT community. And to look at a typical Saturday night crowd at Woody's, it's very apparent that its owners, the Weiss brothers, have forgotten that.

Attend Woody's as a gay man and you'll feel a bit like an animal in a zoo. Straight couples point and whisper while gaggles of women, usually white, hunt for their next accessory, a GBFF. These people are not our allies, if they were they'd be marching with us. To them, we're a handbag to tote with them to Green Eggs Cafe the next morning. By Monday and a Facebook friend request we're thrown in the jewelry box next to a dozen earrings they'll never wear again. 



To be fair, these aren't the covert racists enforcing Woody's discriminatory entrance policies, but they are inadvertently responsible for it, and in so covertly racist. To Woody's-the-business, bridal parties and business happy hours are money, money that wouldn't be there if the bar was truly representative of the vastly diverse LGBT community. Black, Hispanic, Asian, trans, butch, femme, fat, thin, muscular, twink, and everything in between, gay bars are important because it happens to literally everyone, and the Orlando Massacre proved that we still need safe spaces, and Woody's has proven time and again that it isn't one of them. 

On one hand, it might be a blessing that Woody's has become the gay bar du jour for straight people who still think going to a gay bar is some kind of urban safari. If it weren't for Woody's, bridal showers might be pushing their way into U-Bar and Tabu. But the mere mentality that gay bars are on the bachelorette to-do-list speaks to the larger point that this demographic is encroaching on and usurping the few places we have to be ourselves. Before same sex marriage was legalized last summer, these events were especially insulting, and since we've had marriage equality adding a gay bar to the bridal crawl has exploded. Why? Because this demographic can't stand it when something isn't about them. 

Beyond the doors of Woody's, this mentality has infected Philadelphia's Gayborhood like a swarm of locusts. Despite countless neighborhood and nightclub venues throughout the city, they've charged into the Gayborhood and rebranded it the callously named Midtown Village. How is that okay? People pitch a fit if you refer to the Italian Market by its historic namesake, the 9th Street Market, and we'd never consider rebranding Chinatown as Market East Village. Yet with dozens of street signs and rainbow crosswalks at 13th and Locust, it's somehow okay for realtors, and even the city, to rename one of the oldest gay enclaves in the country and the first city to utter the word "Gayborhood." 

We should be more pissed off than we are.

That's not okay. I understand Woody's is a business, and they're in the business of making money. I understand that Philadelphia's Gayborhood sits on vast acreage of developable real estate. But straight people have literally every other neighborhood in the city and hundreds of nightlife venues, and members of the LGBT community still come to cities like Philadelphia to seek community and even safety. With LGBT youths, especially of color, making up a huge chunk of the nation's homeless, Woody's catering to a largely white heterosexual community isn't just an annoyance, it's irresponsible to the community they still claim to represent. 

It's time to hammer the last nail into the coffin. Regardless of the rainbows lining its facade at the gates of the Gayborhood, Woody's is not a gay bar. It is just another venue taking advantage of the neighborhood's address while giving little to nothing back to the community that built its name. If you're a straight woman and want to add a gay bar to your wedding day hangover, by all means, make it Woody's. I won't be there, and neither will my black, brown, or beige friends. And until Woody's acknowledges what it is, just another Green Eggs Cafe chock full of white women, I'll gladly hashtag #BoycottWoodys. Just stay away from U-Bar. We need somewhere to cruise without some Bath & Body Works scented debutante telling us what a waste we are before 9am on Monday.

#boycottwoodys

#boycottwoodys

On Thursday, PhillyMag.com posted Ernest Owens' justifiably brutal takedown of the Gayborhood's popular Woody's nightclub over an apparent dress code that appears to be targeting men and women of color. It came about when Kenmar Jones was turned away at the door after performing with FringeArts for wearing sweatpants and sneakers. Vaguely worded or un-posted dress codes have been used for decades to target "urban" clientele by prohibiting everything from tracksuits to brand-specific items like Timberland boots, and this is hardly the first time Woody's has come under fire over its admission policies.

Jones' story echoes the tactics that inspired Chic's song, Le Freak which found its origins in a similar incident wherein the disco band was denied entry into Studio 54 despite an invite from Grace Jones. According to guitarist Nile Rogers and bassist Bernard Edwards, Chic promptly returned to their hotel on New Years of 1977 and wrote the song, only with its original lyrics substituting "freak out" with "fuck off." The story has become musical lore and a neat piece of trivia, but it speaks to a darker piece of Americana, one steeped in what's being referred to as covert racism, and Jones' own experience at Woody's is evidence that it is alive and well in Philadelphia.

Covert or overt, racism is racism. But the importance of distinguishing the two is that the former allows the offender to sidestep responsibility by blaming things like dress codes. The black hole of social media in Tweets and comments only enables the offense by further excusing it by crying "who wears sweatpants to a bar?"

Woody's is no exception when it comes to exclusionary and discriminatory entrance or ejection calls. Last year I saw a man booted from the club for being painted silver, on Halloween of all nights. The bouncer said there were concerns of the bar tops being marred in paint, but a few minutes before he was asked to leave he had kissed his girlfriend. It's rather ironic that Woody's, a gay bar that's become synonymous with straight bridal parties and frat house scavenger hunts, would ask a straight couple to leave because of a very brief moment of PDA, but that makes the venue's rules all the more frustrating. It also gives themselves a bit of slack when taking cash from hoards of straight women by allowing them to say, "remember when we threw out that straight guy?"

Nevertheless, there is a very real reason that gay bars typically don't enforce dress codes, and that's because their existence, the need for their existence, is already exclusionary in nature: they aren't for everyone. Gay bars are an alternative entertainment option for a still-marginalized segment of the population, the LGBT community. And to look at a typical Saturday night crowd at Woody's, it's very apparent that its owners, the Weiss brothers, have forgotten that.

Attend Woody's as a gay man and you'll feel a bit like an animal in a zoo. Straight couples point and whisper while gaggles of women, usually white, hunt for their next accessory, a GBFF. These people are not our allies, if they were they'd be marching with us. To them, we're a handbag to tote with them to Green Eggs Cafe the next morning. By Monday and a Facebook friend request we're thrown in the jewelry box next to a dozen earrings they'll never wear again. 



To be fair, these aren't the covert racists enforcing Woody's discriminatory entrance policies, but they are inadvertently responsible for it, and in so covertly racist. To Woody's-the-business, bridal parties and business happy hours are money, money that wouldn't be there if the bar was truly representative of the vastly diverse LGBT community. Black, Hispanic, Asian, trans, butch, femme, fat, thin, muscular, twink, and everything in between, gay bars are important because it happens to literally everyone, and the Orlando Massacre proved that we still need safe spaces, and Woody's has proven time and again that it isn't one of them. 

On one hand, it might be a blessing that Woody's has become the gay bar du jour for straight people who still think going to a gay bar is some kind of urban safari. If it weren't for Woody's, bridal showers might be pushing their way into U-Bar and Tabu. But the mere mentality that gay bars are on the bachelorette to-do-list speaks to the larger point that this demographic is encroaching on and usurping the few places we have to be ourselves. Before same sex marriage was legalized last summer, these events were especially insulting, and since we've had marriage equality adding a gay bar to the bridal crawl has exploded. Why? Because this demographic can't stand it when something isn't about them. 

Beyond the doors of Woody's, this mentality has infected Philadelphia's Gayborhood like a swarm of locusts. Despite countless neighborhood and nightclub venues throughout the city, they've charged into the Gayborhood and rebranded it the callously named Midtown Village. How is that okay? People pitch a fit if you refer to the Italian Market by its historic namesake, the 9th Street Market, and we'd never consider rebranding Chinatown as Market East Village. Yet with dozens of street signs and rainbow crosswalks at 13th and Locust, it's somehow okay for realtors, and even the city, to rename one of the oldest gay enclaves in the country and the first city to utter the word "Gayborhood." 

We should be more pissed off than we are.

That's not okay. I understand Woody's is a business, and they're in the business of making money. I understand that Philadelphia's Gayborhood sits on vast acreage of developable real estate. But straight people have literally every other neighborhood in the city and hundreds of nightlife venues, and members of the LGBT community still come to cities like Philadelphia to seek community and even safety. With LGBT youths, especially of color, making up a huge chunk of the nation's homeless, Woody's catering to a largely white heterosexual community isn't just an annoyance, it's irresponsible to the community they still claim to represent. 

It's time to hammer the last nail into the coffin. Regardless of the rainbows lining its facade at the gates of the Gayborhood, Woody's is not a gay bar. It is just another venue taking advantage of the neighborhood's address while giving little to nothing back to the community that built its name. If you're a straight woman and want to add a gay bar to your wedding day hangover, by all means, make it Woody's. I won't be there, and neither will my black, brown, or beige friends. And until Woody's acknowledges what it is, just another Green Eggs Cafe chock full of white women, I'll gladly hashtag #BoycottWoodys. Just stay away from U-Bar. We need somewhere to cruise without some Bath & Body Works scented debutante telling us what a waste we are before 9am on Monday.

#boycottwoodys