Elizabeth Horkley

[ehorkley-blog]

Sidetour: Exploring Philadelphia's Backyard

The Philadelphia Inquirer. 6.6.2013.

Guided tours, when successful, are a sort of archaeological excavation. You could walk the path and look at the same objects on your own, but with a leader, all the behind-the-scenes stories are revealed.

In a city as rich in culture and history as Philadelphia, guided tours abound - in Old City, along the rivers, in neighborhoods, underground.

But there's a new way to see your surroundings, and it has less to do with showcasing the city's highlights than it does with getting at the guts of the town by following the lead of an expert.

Sidetour, a company with operations in New York; Chicago; Washington, D.C.; and now Philadelphia, takes the concept of a guided tour and goes a step further, offering mini-experiences that span the worlds of food, drink, architecture, history, art - even astrology. Since August 2011, Sidetour has offered 30 rotating experiences: "Discover the City's Stunning Ironwork with a Local Blacksmith" ($38 a person); "Unearth Philly's Underground Stories of Freedom and Slavery" ($25); or the lighter "Drink and Discover the Classic Cocktails of Tiki Culture" ($65).

About 80 percent of patrons on each Sidetour are local. But the concept was born far from here, on a trip CEO and cofounder Vipin Goyal took with his wife several years ago. The two former tech start-up workers were bored with the scene in New York, so they sold most of their possessions and bought two plane tickets for a journey around the world, with stops in Africa, Asia, the Middle East, and New Zealand. The most memorable experiences, Goyal explains, were the ones in which a local host connected them with natives' day-to-day experiences and lives.

The vacation prompted Goyal to think about the way people approach their own locales.

"Why is it when we travel we are in this mode of discovery?" he asks. "We're wide-eyed and curious. And then we come back to the cities that we live in, and put these blinders on."

The idea behind Sidetour is to meet the "fascinating people who are doing crazy, remarkable things every day" and to "take a walk in their shoes."

The only way of truly knowing your city, the company advises, is to know the tastemakers. So I met some.

My first Sidetour was also the first to be offered in Philadelphia: a walk through the Reading Viaduct led by Paul VanMeter, the cofounder of VIADUCTGreene - a project devoted to the repurposing of the abandoned Ninth Street Branch of the Reading Railroad.

Starting in Fairmount and winding through Callowhill into Chinatown, the $25 tour followed the viaduct, but did not tread on it. The land, VanMeter explained, was private property. We watched in envy as a stream of independent visitors casually disregarded that fact.

For two hours, VanMeter educated us on the tract's history and plans to reinvent it. Carrying passengers and mail to Reading Terminal for more than 100 years, the elevated rail line represents an important period of industrial development in Philadelphia. Since it became inactive in 1984, the railway has morphed into an enchanting and surreal urban jungle, overgrown with shrubbery and trees. VIADUCTGreene, VanMeter explained, aims to create a garden park "of intersecting culture and wildness." Think New York's High Line.

At its end, VanMeter suggested we decide for ourselves whether to step through a hole in the fence, use a cord tied to a tree, and climb up to the viaduct. I did, and in some ways, it felt like the real tour was just beginning.

My next choice was a wine, cheese, and honey tasting hosted by Annie Baum-Stein, who runs Milk & Honey market in West Philadelphia at the edge of Clark Park, and co-owns Urban Apiaries. Baum-Stein chatted with our group of eight about urban beekeeping, leading us through a tasting based on local zip codes - which we learned meant huge variations in taste. South Philadelphia, for instance, is replete with window-unit plants and small gardens. This honey tastes floral, with an up-front sweetness. Bees in West Philadelphia, on the other hand, are more likely to feed on flowering trees, which yield vegetal honey with a greater depth of flavor.

I stuck around after the official tasting was over, eating the leftover cheese and honey and visiting with Baum-Stein and the other guests. The food and conversation, helped by a lovely location at the center of Logan Square, was hard to leave - until someone had to go to softball practice.

My third Sidetour - a trip through Old City's waterfront - called for walking shoes again. We met our guide, Harry Kyriakodis, a historian and author, at Christ Church on Second Street, eventually making our way up to Northern Liberties on a path along the Delaware. The tour took us under the Benjamin Franklin bridge, over cobblestone streets and cracked sidewalks, and through Kyriakodis' living room (you don't get that kind of treatment on Independence Mall). A resident of Pier 3, Kyriakodis wanted us to see how a historic pier had been converted into a modern complex.

Much of the tour was conducted in spaces where this or that used to be, making it difficult to engage with the material. But Kyriakodis was largely successful in setting the scene of a lively colonial port, sharing pictures and drawings that helped us to better envision the history beneath our feet. As we walked alongside I-95, we stopped at an inconspicuous stairway between Vine and Callowhill Streets connecting Front and Water Streets. More than 300 years old, the "Wood Street Steps," named for a now nonexistent alley, are the last remnants of a series of eight to 12 sets of steps commissioned by William Penn to guarantee water access for all Philadelphians.

Educated in railroads, urban beekeeping, and the waterfront's history, I'm hungry for more.

A side benefit of Sidetour is that it succeeds in satisfying your curiosity on a subject while piquing it in others. Plus, it's hard not to become an enthusiastic supporter of a tour's topic after you've spent an hour or two with someone who has made it their life.

Perhaps Sidetour could become an addiction?

http://www.philly.com/philly/gallery/20130605_Exploring_Philly_s_backyard.html?viewGallery=y

[ehorkley-blog]

Review: No Place on Earth

The Philadelphia Inquirer. 4.26.2013.

Medicine bottles. Buttons. A child's shoe. While cave–diving in Ukraine, spelunker Chris Nicola found these signs of life in a place where few humans were thought to have set foot. These mundane items surely told an extraordinary story. Nicola was compelled to find their owners.

The writing was on the wall, literally. Drawn on the rocks were the names of 38 people from two Jewish families who hid in caves for more than 500 days during World War II. Their unbelievable account of survival is told in Janet Tobias' No Place on Earth, a History Channel-produced documentary that coats the facts in a made–for–TV sheen.

The story unfolds in a series of reenactments and firsthand accounts given by survivors who recall the period with heartbreaking clarity. Under artillery fire and the rumble of tanks, the refugees battled hunger, thirst, and unrelenting darkness to escape certain death from above. They lived like burrowing animals, emerging only at night to forage for food. It was one such excursion that put the Nazis on their trail, leading to an ambush and the execution of two of their party. As one survivor explains, the cave, synonymous with evil spirits and bad luck, was a sanctuary despite its trappings. The real monsters were on the outside.

It's 70 years after the ordeal, and the well of life-affirming testimonies of heroism and perseverance during the Holocaust still seems bottomless. To ask why another such film needs to be made is as absurd as asking why another formulaic action flick needs to be produced. And these true accounts deserve to be played out on the screen more than the mechanical fantasies of a Hollywood screenwriter, right?

No question that the material is fascinating, the interviews gripping, and the conclusion, which brings the subjects back to their former dwelling place, satisfying. But it's all achieved via fuzzy filters and heavily edited reenactments that shove it into a one-hour History Channel special mold. The personalities and facts exceed the packaging for the most part, but the cliched production values are jarring at first and a nuisance throughout.

The producer's hand is heavy in No Place on Earth, but it ultimately can't sink the inspiring tale of endurance. The small-screen air can't cut through the unrelenting gaze of the cave's survivors or diminish their monumental tale of endurance.

http://www.philly.com/philly/entertainment/20130426_The_story_of_two_Jewish_families_who_lived_in_caves_to_escape_Nazis.html

[ehorkley-blog]

The Empty Air: Rittenhouse Square

The Philadelphia Inquirer. 4.21.2013.

What does it take to completely transform a Philadelphia landmark like Rittenhouse Square? The answer could be in your pocket.

The Empty Air, an iPhone application developed by local sound designer and composer Michael Kiley, aims to change your perceptions of a space through an interactive soundtrack.

As you walk through the park, GPS tracks your location and prompts a series of sounds designed to play at specific spots. Walk to one end of the park, and hear an aggressive beat and a panhandler's refrain. Walk to another, and hear a rhythmic jingling and children laughing.

In creating the app, which sells for 99 cents, Kiley thought of the park as topographical, with the lowest point being its entrances and the highest its center. From a sea of ambient noise on the park's outskirts, the track increases in clarity, establishing melodies and rhythms as you head toward the center. Reaching the park's "summit" unlocks a straightforward pop song.

Kiley spent months walking around Rittenhouse, collecting sounds of church bells, chirping birds, rustling leaves and more to mix with musical recordings to make the track.

With The Empty Air, Kiley, who primarily works in theater and dance, sought to create something without the restrictions of a ticketed performance. He was interested in making a more accessible work "within the public sphere."

You don't get more accessible than Rittenhouse Square, which is why Kiley chose the park to be the first subject in what he hopes will be a series of "sound walks" that prompt visitors to reconsider the spaces they're traversing.

Recording under his artist moniker "The Mural and the Mint" - a nod to Philadelphia's abundance of murals and the U.S. Mint - Kiley believes that art can transform a place economically as well as aesthetically.

"Rittenhouse doesn't necessarily need my help," Kiley acknowledges. He chose the square to gain the audience that will allow him to take the app elsewhere. Ideally, the next location will be one "that can really benefit from a few hundred or a few thousand people seeing it who wouldn't normally have."

His sights are set on the Reading Viaduct, or the Palmer Cemetery in Fishtown.

Kiley, 35, moved to Philadelphia in 1998, after graduating from New Mexico State University. In addition to composing and sound design, he works as a voice teacher out of his home and at the Hill School in Pottstown.

The project is Kiley's first foray into application technology. Initially, he was adamant that sounds play exactly when and where they are triggered by checkpoints. The task was frustrating, and ultimately implausible.

"How can I utilize this technology and not be obsessed that it's not doing exactly what it's supposed to do?" he asked himself. "What are the ways I can embrace the chance element of it?"

Ultimately, he accepted the technology's imperfections as one of the app's strengths. Every listen yields a new experience. A spray of seeds blowing in the wind could be accompanied by what sounds like a serene crash of waves (created from traffic noise) or a foreboding bass, depending on how quickly you walk, what direction you face, or even whether you lean right or left.

Despite its trappings, the app is intended to help you disengage from technology.

"Put your device away and enjoy!" it advises as it starts.

For Kiley, this is the element he is most proud of. "It's using technology in an invisible way," he says.

It's easy to lose yourself in the experience, especially on a bright, sunny day when you have no place else to be.

http://www.philly.com/philly/news/local/20130421_App-reciating_the_sounds_of_a_Philly_landmark.html?&subscribe=y&listID=1782&action=logIn

[ehorkley-blog]

Review: The We and the I

The Philadelphia Inquirer. 3/21/2013.

After an unsuccessful attempt at blockbusters (The Green Hornet), Michel Gondry continues to test his bounds as a filmmaker with The We and the I.

Hitching onto a Bronx bus on the last day of school, the film eavesdrops on a racially diverse assortment of teens as they seize their last chance to joke with and jab at each other before summer. Working with a cast of non-actors and a semi-improvised script, the film blends neorealism, documentary, and pure fantasy into a fly-on-the-wall portrayal of the way teens navigate their relationships with one another and with themselves.

The trouble is that these genres contradict rather than complement one another, resulting in a film that suffers from an identity crisis.

Teens line up to collect their phones from a storage facility at the beginning of The We and the I. The story doesn't begin until they're switched on and tuned in, but the technology is merely a factor in their social interactions. It captures and repeats reality, but never supplants it.

Gondry doesn't aim for a profound statement on today's youth. He's more interested in aligning it with past generations, and speaking to the universality of adolescence. Rather than grounding the parallels in reality, he references teen film conventions. The recycled formulas become tangled in the free-flowing realism that Gondry captures, then corrupts.

With a cast using their real names and histories to inform their characters, Gondry mines a rich field and often uncovers moments of sublimity. When a gay couple break up over a fling with a female, the tears are unstaged and contagious. But too often the dialogue is overtly moralizing or didactic, and self-consciously delivered.

Organic interactions are interrupted by Gondry's words, or abandoned in favor of fantasy sequences. The film's verisimilitude too often takes a backseat to conventional storytelling and Gondry's whimsical aesthetic. By the time a teacher bursts into papier-mâché flames, even the crude semblance of cinéma vérité is obliterated.

Like the best documentarians, Gondry finds elegance in the mundane. In choosing to fuse genres, he takes one risk while abstaining from another. It's a fun ride for the most part, with a bumping soundtrack and genuine moments of warmth and heartbreak. But one can't help but wish Gondry had simply let the camera roll, and let the kids speak for themselves.

http://www.philly.com/philly/entertainment/movies/20130322__The_We_and_the_I___Director_gets_in_way_of_teens__reality.html#ixzz2OD7KLir9 Watch sports videos you won't find anywhere else

[ehorkley-blog]

Review: The Waiting Room

The Philadelphia Inquirer. 3/14/2013.

'The Line Starts Over There" reads a sign in Highland Hospital's emergency waiting room. This sort of shuffle is all too familiar for the mostly unemployed, uninsured patients who end up at the Oakland, Calif., facility. As one of its overworked physicians explains, the public service center is a place of last resort.

Peter Nicks' documentary The Waiting Room shines a light on the darkest corners of the American health-care system. Its patrons are poor, unemployed, uninsured, and sick - a worst-case scenario. But in giving his subjects the attention usually denied them, Nicks nets moments that are at turns horrific and touching, redemptive of those seeking treatment and the workers who provide it where no one else will.

At the high-traffic hospital, it's not a matter of who gets there first, but whose condition requires the most immediate attention. At one end of the spectrum is a carpet layer whose muscle spurs are preventing him from working. At the other is a 15-year-old gunshot victim. One will leave the hospital with an astronomical bill and a referral to a surgeon who may or may not recommend an operation, and the other will depart in a body bag.

The waiting room is ostensibly a hellish chamber where relief is sought and rarely received. "We're all going to die!" a frustrated patient hurls at the doctor treating him.

Nicks makes it his mission to hone in on the moments that make life worth living. He captures these in the relationships that exist inside and outside the waiting room. A nurse's cheerful banter makes everyone she comes in contact with smile. A doctor successfully pleads with a colleague to see a stroke victim who has been turned away everywhere else. A father breaks down at his daughter's bedside, apologetic that since having been laid off, he can't provide her with regular health care. She opens her mouth, afflicted with a tonsil infection, for the first time in the film to comfort him.

Nicks is an invisible presence in The Waiting Room. There are no voice-overs or asides, sermons or politics, à la Michael Moore. Nicks works in the Frederick Wiseman (Titicut Follies, State Legislature) vein, letting his subjects speak for themselves.

In doing so, he crafts a surprisingly watchable montage adhered by misfortune. In turning away from inconvenient realities, he suggests, we do so at the cost of recognizing human potential.

http://www.philly.com/philly/entertainment/movies/20130315_A_hospital_waiting_room__at_turns_horrific_and_touching.html#ixzz2O0Ssbq9u

[ehorkley-blog]

Q & A with Author Stephan Pastis

The Philadelphia Inquirer. 2/28/2013.

When Stephan Pastis made the leap from adult comic strips to children's literature, he knew he would have to make some changes. So he removed the beer cans and smoking.

It wasn't the first career shift the 45-year-old California native had undergone. After graduating from UCLA law school, he worked as a litigation lawyer before submitting his first comics to syndicates in 1996. Since then, his popular strip Pearls Before Swine has appeared in more than 600 newspapers, including The Inquirer, and spawned a New York Times list bestselling compilation.

In his new book, Timmy Failure: Mistakes Were Made, the author introduces us to the titular Timmy, an 11-year-old wannabe sleuth whose attempts to curb crime are hindered by his huge ego and wild incompetence.

Already at work on the second installment of Timmy and appearing for the first time in the Philadelphia area Thursday, Pastis chatted by phone last week about his first stab at writing a children's novel.

Question: Where did the character of Timmy Failure come from?

Answer: Ever since I was a kid, I read all those kid detective books. Encyclopedia Brown, Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew - they all had really clever young detectives. Much cleverer than me, by the way. So I thought, "What if you worked in a genre like that, but you made the detective totally unable to solve anything?" It just made me laugh. Then I made him sort of arrogant, too, because I like characters that have that blind spot.

Q: So what makes Timmy worth rooting for?

A: Beneath that facade of arrogance is a kid who has almost nobody on his side. That makes him vulnerable. That's the saving grace. If he were that arrogant, and he was popular, that wouldn't be funny.

Q: You've written for adults up until this point. How did you tap into a kid's sense of humor?

A: I always write the same thing. I write to make myself laugh, and apparently when I do that what comes out is something best-suited for an 11-year-old kid. The only changes I had to make from the strip were no beer cans, no smoking.

The one thing a kid will spot immediately is someone who purposefully writes to them as opposed to someone who writes, and you can come along if you like. With Wimpy Kid, Jeff Kinney was not writing that for kids, he was writing it for adults, and I don't think it's an accident that it succeeded like it did.

Q: Did you draw from your own experiences as a kid when you were writing Timmy?

A: I almost never write consciously from my own background because I try to think as little as possible when I write. So, no, because I'm not thinking like that. But I often look back at what I've written and go, "That is straight from my childhood!" This also means I do little to no outlining. The outlining for Timmy Failure would probably fit on three index cards. But that can't be typical. I'm sure there are better ways to write books.

Q: Do the stories develop as you write?

A: For me, the building blocks are the chapters. I just go chapter by chapter. And so the outline is almost like a movie script. At the quarter-way point, this will happen. And at the halfway point, this has to have happened. So as long as I stay within that very skeletonlike outline, I know I'm OK. I just try to write a funny chapter.

Q: Do you have to do a lot of rewrites?

A: That happened a little bit on the second Timmy Failure, because I was 70 pages in and had no outline. Nothing. So then I pulled back because it was a little too free-flowing. So I stopped and gave it a little more of an outline and then I went back to it. But I'm a big believer that your subconscious is much smarter and more creative than your consciousness, and I don't think your consciousness can keep up with the other.

Q: This was your first novel. Were you at all intimidated?

A: The only thing that was hard is when I'm done with a comic strip I can literally hold it at arm's length and see the entirety of the comic strip and see how it flows. When you're writing a novel, there's no such way to see the whole canvas like that. If I went days without writing, to see where I was at and get the flow of it, I would literally start at Page 1 and read the whole thing and then start writing again. But I don't know how else to do it.

Q: You're a veteran of book tours. Any interesting stories from the road?

A: I don't know how this tradition started, but fans bring me beer. That's going to be a very weird combo if it happens at the kids' book signings. Then there are people that have you sign everything - a baseball, a guitar, shirts.

And occasionally there will just be a weird request. I remember one guy on the last tour, after he got a picture with me he said: "Can we take one more, and in this one you just put your hands around my neck and choke me?" And I said, "I don't think so. . . . "

http://www.philly.com/philly/entertainment/20130228_A_detective__11__who_can_t_sleuth_straight.html

[ehorkley-blog]

Floored by Third Century Mosaic

  The Philadelphia Inquirer. 2/19/2013.

On a snowy day before the Feb. 10 opening of "Unearthing a Masterpiece" at the Penn Museum, exhibition coordinator Kate Quinn stood on South Street, watching the enormous crane that was to lift the star of the show - the magnificent late-Roman Lod mosaic - into the museum.

South Street was closed to cars, but pedestrians continued to walk by even as, moments later, the first of the 17-by-24-foot floor mosaic's seven pieces rose into the air.

"They were on their phones and not noticing the almost-2,000-year-old floor flying above their heads," Quinn recalls.

A week later, events department staffers were scrambling to find more chairs. They'd already set up 150 in the museum's Egypt Gallery for Mediterranean curator-in-charge Brian Rose's lecture on the piece's history, but the turnout required 50 more.

Rose attributes the impressive crowd to high interest in ancient Rome and unusual iconography. The extremely well-preserved mosaic - which dates to A.D. 300 and was unearthed in 1996 in the Israeli city of Lod, near Tel Aviv - features a variety of animals, fish, birds, ships, and other objects in marine and hunting scenes, framed by elaborately patterned borders. In the central panel on display at Penn are several exotic species - giraffe, elephant, rhinoceros, tiger - sparring, framed by a lion and lioness perched on mountains believed to be Ethiopian.

It can be assumed, says Rose, that the person who had the mosaic floor installed was involved in the animal-trafficking trade, which exported creatures from far-flung locations in Africa and Asia to Rome for use in gladiatorial games.

The absence of human figures is unusual and what makes the Lod mosaic so appealing, says Jacob Fisch, executive director of the Friends of the Israel Antiquities Authority.

"It doesn't have any writing, any names; you don't know if a Jew made it or a pagan," Fisch says. "You just know that it's a gorgeous ancient masterpiece."

Shortly after its discovery during a road construction project, the excavation site of the mosaic - a series of panels totaling 50 feet by 27 feet - was opened to public viewing for a single weekend. Shelby White, president of the Friends of the Israel Antiquities Authority, and her husband, prominent Wall Street investor and philanthropist Leon Levy, visited during that brief window.

"They saw it there, and they couldn't believe their eyes," Fisch recalls.

Without funding for scientific excavation and conservation, the mosaic was reburied shortly thereafter. But it had left an indelible impression on White. After her husband's death in 2003, she and Fisch had a conversation, and she decided that a museum should be built on the site to house the ancient artwork.

In 2009, it was uncovered, cleaned, and painstakingly removed to a lab for restoration and preservation. While the Penn Museum's exhibition features only its three finest panels, the Shelby White and Leon Levy Lod Mosaic Center will display the entire floor piece when the three panels are returned to the site and the museum opens in late 2014. Ramps will allow visitors to observe it from heights of three and nine feet.

Lod is just six miles from Ben Gurion airport - the hub at which tour groups depart for Jerusalem - and minutes from a major highway connecting Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, an ideal location for the center, Fisch says. Given the town's centrality, he predicts as many as half a million annual visitors.

Residents of Lod, experiencing an economic downturn, hope the center will boost the local economy. But more important, Fisch believes, is that it will keep the artifact as close to its origins as possible.

When objects are moved, "you lose this immediate connection to where the material was discovered," he says. The chance to display the work where it was found is an "incredible, rare opportunity."

After its current tour - which began at New York's Metropolitan Museum of Art in 2010 and will end at the Louvre next summer - the Lod mosaic will make its way back to Israel and stay put. Delicacy was never a concern. Despite Quinn's trepidation as it dangled from the crane, the mosaic is remarkably sturdy.

"If there's any ancient object that you can travel around the world without worrying about its condition, it's the mosaic," Fisch says, noting that its original purpose was to be walked on. "The mosaic is made to last."

[ehorkley-blog]

Paleopalooza at the Academy of Natural Sciences

The Philadelphia Inquirer 2013. 2/15/2013.

Jason Poole is dusty and canvas-clad. His leather satchel and Indiana Jones hat rest near the feet of Hadrosaurus foulkii, a Cretaceous-period dinosaur skeleton.

But Poole isn’t digging - he’s drawing. Swiveling his head from a larger-than-life blackboard to the bones at his right, he fleshes out a rib cage. A few broad chalk strokes here, a softening of the palm there, and the creature creeps closer to life.

“This dinosaur probably got eaten by T. rex,” blurts 7-year-old Juan Wilson. Poole takes the opportunity to teach him a lesson.

“Well, T. rex wasn’t on this coast, as far as we can tell,” he explains. “He had a relative called Dryptosaurus that was on this coast. He was a bit smaller than T. rex.”

“Just like a little T. rex,” Juan echoes.

The educators at the Academy of Natural Sciences thrive on these aha! moments.

It’s Fossil Month at the academy, capping off a year of themed months in celebration of the institution’s bicentennial. Poole’s project is part of the exhibition “Drawn to Dinosaurs,” one of a series of events leading up to “Paleopalooza”: a festival of “all things fossils, all things dinosaurs,” according to paleontologist Ted Daeschler.

“Oh my gosh,” Daeschler exclaims at the mere mention of Paleopalooza. The two-day event, now in its fifth year, is expected to fill the house with patrons eager to rub elbows with experts. The opportunity for interaction is what Daeschler most looks forward to every year, and what he believes sets Paleopalooza apart from similar events.

“A museum like the academy is really the only place where you can get a face-to-face experience, where you can have a conversation with people who make this their business,” he says. This “authenticity,” he emphasizes, dates to 1868, when the academy became the first place in the world to mount a dinosaur skeleton - a Hadrosaurus foulkii, the same type that Jason Poole fleshes out for an audience.

“We’ve been doing dinosaurs for a long time,” Daeschler affirms, elongating the “o’s.” “So of all places, we have the credentials.”

Come Saturday, Daeschler will be stationed at a table equipped with dinosaur fossils to stimulate discussion with “brilliant little kids and curious adults.” Like Poole, he’s there to answer questions and foster an interest in paleontology.

“I hate to tell you how many kids’ parents tell me, ‘This kid wants to be a paleontologist,’ ” he says, laughing. “I look at them and say, ‘It’s a long road. Don’t give away the bedroom.’ “

Nine-year-old Lucas Sullivan fits the mold. Oversize goggles swimming on the bridge of his nose, chisel in hand, he picks at an emerging skeleton in Dinosaur Hall’s mezzanine exhibition, where people can get firsthand experience of what it’s like to dig for dinosaur bones.

“I think it’s an arm,” Lucas observes as he works diligently. “I’m actually reading about fossils at school and they’re really neat,” he casually adds.

Five-year-old brother Liam James isn’t itching to become a dinosaur expert, but he’s still enthusiastic about his favorite dinosaur: “T. rex!”

For patrons like Liam James, Paleopalooza still offers plenty of fun. In addition to the team of scientists at the public’s disposal, there will be a slew of activities that cater to dino-weary and younger visitors.

Chad Peeling of Reptiland of Allenwood, Pa., will bring along live reptiles to present “Life in Scales,” an animal show that illuminates the similarities between reptiles and ancient animals. Fossil juggler Randy Lyons will roam the halls, teaching and throwing fossils into the air. The Diggity Dudes will perform “hip music for hip kids and their equally hip parents” twice daily. Face-painting, puppet shows, and trilobite races are also on the agenda.

“Anybody who’s interested in Paleo, you’ve got to come down,” Poole says. Taking a break from sketching, his hands and arms covered to the elbow in green chalk, he says scientists don’t really know what color dinosaurs were.

Like Daeschler, Poole values above all else the interactions with patrons interested in art and paleontology. “That’s what really keeps me going,” he says.

There could be plenty of these moments at the academy this weekend, for adults as well as children. And it’s not all work for the scientists, either.

“It’s a lot of fun for us, too,” Daeschler admits, as if you couldn’t tell.

[ehorkley-blog]

Mrs. Big Stuffed

The Philadelphia Inquirer. 2/14/2013.

Jen Cohan had spent all morning primping her kids for a Christmas card photo shoot. The only thing missing was Elke, the family rat terrier. Elke was 16 and had been ill for months. Before she started looking, Jen knew: Elke was dead.

“What do you do when your chickens die?” she texted her friend, an urban farmer. “Beth Beverly,” he replied.

Beverly is a Philadelphia taxidermist who specializes in a more creative type of mount.

“Elke might end up a hat or a Christmas tree topper,” Jen’s friend warned, but Jen had worked in fashion and needed little convincing. She called Beverly to pick up Elke and gave her carte blanche.

Months later, “Elke 2.0” was draped in jewels and a demure veil, winning best in show at New York’s Carnivorous Nights taxidermy competition. A New York Times article about the event caught the eye of the unscripted team at cabler AMC. The next day, Beverly got a phone call.

Two years later, Immortalized, the network’s first reality competition, will premiere Thursday night. Each week, an expert “Immortalizer” will square off against an upstart competitor. Think Iron Chef - but instead of frying the critters, Beverly will be decking them out with rhinestones and Frankenstein appendages.

Shortly after returning from Los Angeles to wrap shooting, Beverly works in her studio in Kensington. She’s clipping the skin from a tiny, doll-like chicken, to be used for a bridal headpiece.

“She wants it similar to this other piece,” Beverly explains, grabbing the chicken’s head, the morsel of meat she’s working to extract tumbling out of its feathery blanket. “The bird head is wrapped in a circle,” she demonstrates, curling the floppy neck into a tight C, petting the bristling feathers momentarily into life. “It’s just so beautiful,” she coos, before dropping it like a rag doll. Clock! Its skull knocks the wooden surface of the table.

Beverly halfheartedly tosses the extracted innards into the trash. Since this specimen died of unknown causes, she won’t be feeding the meat to her cats, as she normally does.

Dislike for wastefulness is something Beverly can’t shake. It has haunted her since she was a child, salvaging hair and snake skins to play with, and it’s what led her to taxidermy. After moving to Philadelphia from Delaware County in 2000, she began to notice dead birds on the ground, casualties of skyscraper collisions.

“Every time I passed one of those birds, I would think, ‘All those beautiful feathers are going to waste.’ ” She bought a book on taxidermy and began to experiment.

An animal lover, city dweller, and unabashed fan of jewels, feathers, and glitter, Beverly hopes Immortalized will correct misconceptions about taxidermy, and the sort of people who make a living from it.

Petite and neon blond, Beverly, 35, who lives in South Philadelphia with her husband, Jim Coughlin, isn’t exactly what springs to mind when one envisions “taxidermist.” A photograph of an impeccably made-up Beverly wearing a hat fashioned out of an entire orange hen immediately struck producers of Immortalized.

A natural showman with an affinity for the camera, Beverly was surprised when she received the call from AMC, thinking the opportunity too good to be true. “I remember thinking, ‘Why are you offering this to me? Who passed up on this opportunity?’ “

But Beverly was just the sort of personality AMC was looking for. “Part of our programming philosophy is that we always strive to be unexpected and unconventional,” explains Joel Stillerman, AMC’s vice president of original programming. “If there are 25 food shows out there, we don’t want to be the 26th.”

Stillerman describes the show’s aim as “redefining the art of taxidermy as a serious and legitimate art form, rather than a backwoods oddity.” Beverly, a veteran of gallery shows and a first-time participant at this year’s New York Fashion Week, is a prime example of the en vogue taxidermy popping up in metropolitan competitions and storefronts in places like Brooklyn.

In addition to her background, producers were also drawn to her personality. “Which counts when you’re making TV,” Stillerman emphasizes.

The bridal headpiece finished, Beverly has begun work on her next project: a spring line of hats and fascinators to coincide with the release of Baz Luhrmann’s The Great Gatsby. Having spent more than a decade perfecting her taxidermy art, Beverly has learned to be resourceful.

In addition to working three other jobs, Beverly finds novel ways to make ends meet. She trades squirrel hats for blowouts, wall mirrors clutched by rabbit paws for mixtapes.

The tiny chicken atop the bridal piece is a gift from the same urban farmer who introduced her to Jen Cohan and Elke. Her lifestyle parallels that of her aesthetic philosophy: She can’t afford to let anything go to waste.

Beverly hopes Immortalized will give her the exposure she craves, and bring her closer to an existence where she doesn’t have to work multiple jobs or cut open a tube of moisturizer to get at the last dollops. She’s close, but the competition brought her nearer to one finish line and farther from another.

“While I was there, I saw how strong the work of the other taxidermists was, and it was just like I climbed this hill, and saw this mountain,” she says.

Compared to her fellow “Immortalizers,” some of whom have more than two decades of professional experience, Beverly is a relative newcomer. But she stole the spotlight at a promotional event last weekend, wearing a gold brocade evening gown and a hat made of a goat fetus.

“I think she’s someone who’s pushing the boundaries of an art form,” Stillerman muses. “And we’re always drawn to those people.”

[ehorkley-blog]

The Marvelous Finds Its Groove

34th Street Magazine. 11/1/2012.

A record is music that you can hold. It’s a circular, shiny, black cut of vinyl inscribed with tiny grooves that store sounds. You play it by placing it atop a spinning turntable. The needle grazes its surface, releasing the sound waves into the atmosphere. This process must be repeated when the side reaches its end. In the case of a double album like, say, The Beatles’ “White Album,” the course must be completed four times. At The Marvelous record shop, the “White Album” leans nose–to–shoulder against “Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” in a wooden nook labeled “BEATLES.” This one is priced at $95.

The Marvelous has recently relocated from Penn’s campus to Baltimore Ave., near 49th St. Bryan Martin has worked there for seven years, at both locations. He co–owns a percentage of the store with his business partner, Dave Koch. He spends up to 10 hours per day, five days per week, wading through records. He sells records. He buys records. He cleans records with a round, hairy brush. He handles records between his big, sturdy hands, like pieces of fine china. But his first task every morning is to set the mood for the day — to select a soundtrack for his customers. He does this by hitting “shuffle” on his iPod nano.

He’s a big guy, with a soft beard and light eyes. His voice is low and polite — until I ask about the iPod. “If you weren’t here, I’d be running around like a maniac, and I don’t have time to flip a record over,” he says with some humor, and more annoyance. Fair, but coming from a vinyl connoisseur, it’s disarming. The ability to store files digitally has replaced the need for hard copies of media — not to mention the brick and mortar markets that sell them.

By the very nature of the medium, records refuse to fade to background music. Listening requires active participation: you must get up to flip the record over. “It’s a protest in a sense”, Bryan says, of the physicality of the act, predicting a backlash in the future against what he calls “virtual bullshit culture.” He goes on: “For the most part, it’s tough to sell people on that, and in order for people’s sanity to get reoriented, it requires things like getting people to physically pick up a record or do something.” Each record sold is emblematic of this idea.

For background, The Marvelous used to be located on 40th St., in the basement of Smoke’s — yes, that Smoke’s. Despite being just over a mile away from its former home, the re–route is a lesson in contrasts. There’s a park across the street from the new location — small, but neat, and lively after school on a Wednesday afternoon. A man makes his way across, entering the store and wheeling his bicycle to the back without acknowledging us. I assume he’s a regular. Once he starts shelving records, I realize that he works here.

This is Dave. He wears a funny cap trimmed in tribal patterns that turns up at the sides. He’s slight, with nervous eyes and a coy smile. Like Bryan, he’s worked at The Marvelous for years, at both locations. Now he can wheel his bicycle into work without hitch: one perk of no longer being underground. The lack of sunlight at the old location contributed to what Dave designates as a “psychic problem.” There were concrete woes too: leaks from upstairs were flooding the store, ruining thousands of dollars’ worth of jazz records. The landlord was rigid. And to top it all off, employees weren’t feeling quite right. Upon move–out, black mold was discovered in the stacks.

Now, things have never been better for The Marvelous, albeit with one exception: “We may be selling a little less Beatles than we were on 40th St.,” Bryan concedes.  But “every day is busier than this time last year,” he affirms, estimating that 20 to 100 records are sold per day. I’m somewhat skeptical — the only “customer” I’ve seen so far was selling records. He had Bob Dylan’s “Blood on the Tracks,” plus three David Bowie albums. But after we finish talking, Bryan makes a phone call. “We have a copy of ‘Ziggy Stardust.’ Would you like us to hold it for you?” Before my visit is over, another one of those Bowie records is gone. And they arrived after I did.

Like the wares it sells, The Marvelous requires participation. It requires patrons. It requires a journey that might be one block or 20. It asks you to search and find, rummage through stacks, put on the well–worn headphones and test spin at the listening station. “The universe didn’t happen from not moving.” Bryan says. “And that’s what all music is — vibrations.” Records are cradled in hands, hung on walls and whirled on turntables at The Marvelous. You move, and so do they.

[ehorkley-blog]

If These Walls Could Talk

34th Street Magazine. 9/20/2012.

When plans were announced in the spring to demolish the mansion at 40th and Pine, much of Penn took notice for the first time of something they walked by everyday. Steps slowed outside the complex. What was heretofore unknown assumed an aura of mystery. What history was encased in those cinderblock wings?

In our midst, a legal battle among Penn, developers and the community drags on over a proposed apartment complex intended for graduate housing. With neighbors divided, preservationists up in arms and the university caught in the middle, 400 S. 40th St.’s future is up in the air. The house has been there for more than 150 years, but when you graduate, it might not be.

***

The year is 1853, and Philadelphia, like other large cities in the U.S., is undergoing an urban transformation. With mass transit on the horizon, the closely–knit city center has begun to diffuse, paving the way for development on its outskirts. Samuel Sloan, a young architect best known now for the establishment of the first American architectural periodical, is at work in West Philadelphia fulfilling the demands of wealthy citizens who wish to buy into a suburban Utopia. One such person is John P. Levy — half of the successful steamboat–manufacturing company Neafie & Levy.

Levy moves from his former home near the wharf in Kensington to a comparatively idyllic environment, purchasing 400 S. 40th St. for the then–hefty sum of $6000. A newly–inducted member of the industrial elite, he’s exactly the sort of resident developers of the area are hoping to seduce. It’s a successful match, and shortly after moving in, Levy begins development himself. Intimately connected to the industrial growth of Philadelphia and its story of suburbanization, he is buried at Woodland Cemetery in a marble mausoleum.

***

Fast forward to the mid–20th century, and the property is metamorphosing. A nursing home buys the building and begins the process of adding cinderblock wings. Extending on every side except the north, they dominate the structure’s appearance. The formerly–glorious property — the work of an esteemed architect at his most ambitious — is effectively entombed.

Despite the pseudo–fortifications, the community holds the property in sufficient esteem to add it to the National Register of Historic Places in 1973. “The continuing value of the house, despite changes in architectural style, attests to the transcendent power of the suburban vision,” its nomination form reads.

***

Aaron Wunsch is a historic preservation professor at Penn. He has been a vocal opponent of Penn’s designs since they were first announced last spring — in fact, I tracked him down via the comments section in the Daily Pennsylvanian article that broke the news. Unlike the majority of internet commenters, he used his real name.

On the payroll of an institution whose plans he vehemently disagrees with, Wunsch’s affection for his post makes his position all the more precarious. He describes the perks of teaching alongside living history and having the privilege of educating some of the best students of historic preservation in the country. “I think it sets a really dispiriting example for them to see that their future alma mater may be in the business of demolishing historic buildings,” he says.

Despite the unpalatable additions made in the 1950s, Wunsch firmly believes the property to possess the same significance it held when it was added to the historic register. He stresses that the home’s majestic innards are still intact. “The additions have not fundamentally compromised it,” he explains. “They’ve obscured it without wrecking the core. They could be stripped away and you could see what was originally there.” In lieu of this, he advises me to “look up” in my observance of the house. Traces of the original structure can be seen nearer to the sky.

***

Just around the corner from 400 S. 40th St. is Woodland Terrace. Composed entirely of Samuel Sloan–designed houses, the street is designated a historic district. These homes might be said to be the siblings of 400 S. 40th St. — they’re certainly treated as such by the residents. Mary Daniels has lived in the same house on Woodland Terrace for over 50 years. She raised a family, sent her children to Penn and lost her husband there. She used to be a conflict resolution teacher, and now she’s embroiled in a new contention.

I meet Daniels at her home. When she shows me in, it becomes obvious why this is her preferred meeting place. Unable to hide my enchantment, I remark on what a beautiful old house she lives in. “This is what it’s all about,” she says with a smile, raising her hands and motioning to the perfectly–preserved walls that surround her.

Mary Goldman, Daniels’s friend and neighbor, joins us shortly, and I learn that Goldman and I neighbors. She lives three houses down the street from me, which I find hard to believe — not just because of the years of life that separate us, but because her house is old and beautiful and pristine, and mine has red cups on the lawn and a mattress in the living room. I live in what she good–humoredly designates “one of the animal houses” — her home is on the national historic register. She’s lived there since 1962.

Neither Daniels nor Goldman can remember much of what the contested property was like when they moved in. As far as they can recall, those cinderblock wings were always there. They remember a sale to nameless owners, who turned it into an ambiguous “personal care home” that was poorly–run. The home was so understaffed that patients would often wander around the neighborhood. Goldman recalls one woman in particular who was permanently stationed outside, asking for cigarettes.

Daniels and Goldman have one abiding cause to fight for when it comes to 400 S. 40th St. — the preservation of an area they call home. This, they believe, is contingent on the prevention of the construction of a 5–story, 122 unit–dense apartment complex.

Daniels sums up her feelings at the end of our conversation: “This is my home. And it’s a setting that’s gracious and beautiful, and it adds to my life enormously, and I intend to stay here,” she says, letting escape the slightest tinge of heretofore–withheld emotion. “This is where I belong, and this is what I believe in.”

***

Barry Grossbach has lived in the neighborhood for 42 years, having formerly presided over the Spruce Hill Community Association and currently serving as the chair for the zoning committee. In contrast to Daniels and Goldman, he supports Penn’s current plan. He speaks of the issue in passionate tones, clearly frustrated by the current standstill caused by disagreement.  He doesn’t hide his personal aversion to the property: “It was a depressing nursing home” he remarks conclusively. “There was a woman who used to stand outside asking for cigarettes.”

In Grossbach’s mind, the current positioning of the property isn’t much of an improvement. “As much as people would like to say this is a residential, home–owning neighborhood, it’s not — it’s student housing.” He’s doubtful that any single–family homeowner “in their right mind” would want to live there now. “Go out on Friday or Saturday morning. Walk up and down the 4000 block of Baltimore, right across from Woodland Terrace, and you tell me how many red plastic cups there are.” He has a point— these are the very “animal houses” Goldman referred to.

***

I’m not sure what I’m expecting when I meet Ed Datz, head of Penn’s Facilities & Real Estate Services and my last interviewee. But he’s not the slick–haired, fast–talking developer I had reductively envisioned. He’s sympathetic to the cause and even echoes Wunsch’s advice. “You can see in the fabric what [the mansion] was before all the appendages were added,” he offers. “We went through a lengthy process in trying to preserve it.”

The history of the site since 2007 speaks on his behalf. The first plan that was introduced was for a 10–story hotel built atop the historic house. This plan was immediately rejected by neighbors from Woodland Terrace and Spruce Hill alike. “You were preserving the house and destroying the neighborhood,” Daniels says of it.

She held the same sentiment in 2010, when a new, seven–story proposal that also preserved the house was introduced. Despite the slighter height, the plan was rejected outright as well. In Wunsch’s opinion, this was the most satisfactory option to date, and something the community should have tried to work with rather than reject outright.

What happened next addressed the concerns neighbors had of increased traffic and unseemly sightlines. A five–story design was introduced, but the catch was that the historic mansion be demolished.

This plan was approved by the Historic Commission via a financial hardship claim made by Penn — a notion that plenty found ludicrous. According to the university, investors could not be attracted to the site unless an 11.5% return could be guaranteed. “Wouldn’t we all like to have that in our pockets?” Goldman quips. Datz calmly suggests that critics talk to other developers.

As of now, the property stands in front of the Zoning Board of Adjustment and the Licensing & Inspection review. Both are appeals of earlier decisions made by the city to allow for demolition and new construction.

***

Compromise is the word on everybody’s lips, but no one can seem to agree on what it entails. For Grossbach, it’s about preserving history while accepting new development. “You get to a certain point and change becomes a little scary, and a little threatening to the whole essence of what your community is,” he says.

With renovations constantly in flux on campus and a population that is overwhelmingly temporary, it’s no small wonder that West Philadelphia has retained so much of its historical groundwork. Though in–transit 20–somethings have replaced the industrial elite and red cups menace the formerly–manicured lawns and porches, as Wunsch puts it, “the fabric is still there.”

How much longer it will be there remains to be seen.

[ehorkley-blog]

Review: Hop Sing Laundromat

34th Street Magazine. 9/5/2012.

The first suggested searches that appear when googling “Hop Sing Laundromat” are “rules” and “dress code.” You’ll find plenty of results if looking for either, but good luck if you’re trying to find a phone number or a menu. Since its soft opening at the beginning of the year, Hop Sing has sold itself on mystique. The arbitrary rules, semi–secret location and deliberate lack of self–promotion are all there to plant one question in your head: will I get in? It’s easier to turn your own nose up at these pretensions than to actually give it a shot, but if you do so you’ll be missing out. These are no doubt some of the best drinks your dollar can buy in Philadelphia.

The Hop Sing “experience” starts when you ring the buzzer at an unmarked door in Chinatown, not far from the famous arch. A bouncer sticks his head out and motions you in like he’s watching out for the cops. Stepping inside the iron door is like entering another dimension: you end up in the “waiting” room, a large foyer with an aesthetic borrowed from the Haunted Mansion ride at Disneyland. You’re waiting for Lee, the owner, who shortly emerges and introduces himself, before politely but firmly laying down the famous “rules”: no pictures, no cell phones.  And don’t tell anyone you were here: “This is a lousy bar with lousy alcohol,” he says with a wink.

Despite Lee’s tongue–in–cheek request, it’s hard not to sing the praises of Hop Sing’s “lousy alcohol.” The well liquors are top–shelf, along the lines of Patron and Belvedere. We had a “Montana Payback,” named after the battle of Little Bighorn. A brandy (Laird’s Applejack) and rum (El Dorado de Luxe Silver) concoction, it also packs a Thai chili pepper, offset by sweet notes of strawberry and a thick layer of cream on the surface. It’s served in a dainty glass and sprinkled with rose petals, lest ye be intimidated by the list of ingredients. We also tried the “Nevermore,” a coffee drink infused with Ambler gin and Patron Citronge tequila. The coffee is a Vietnamese blend, also topped with a layer of cream. The sweet but hearty nightcap left us licking our lips in search of frothy traces for the rest of the night.

At $10 per drink, Hop Sing doesn’t cater to a student’s budget. But the petite, elegant glasses belie drinks that pack a punch: one per person was enough for us — any more and we would have been heading home early. So when your pocketbook allows it and you’ve gathered a group of adventurous (and well–dressed) friends, opt for a night on the (China)town. The gothic décor and wacky protocol is at intervals tiresome and delightful, but the drinks are what will keep you coming back for more.

[ehorkley-blog]

Review: Moonrise Kingdom

34th Street Magazine. 6/8/2012.

According to everyone at Cannes (and your friends who have already seen it in New York) Moonrise Kingdom is the best work Wes Anderson has done since The Royal Tennenbaums. The reputation far precedes the film, so you’d imagine it would be bound to disappoint. But it does so only slightly for this Anderson fan.

There isn’t a truly redemptive moment — one that floors you with an unexpected sucker punch of substance — but the director’s affection for his characters is engrossing, the performances of his two child leads heartbreakingly apt.

Sam (Jared Gilman) and Suzy (Kara Hayward) are hopelessly in love and at odds with the world around them. Labeled “troubled” by clueless adults and sneering peers, the two characters embark on an adventure to escape unwarranted reputations and build a home for themselves in the wild.  In response, Anderson’s adults reveal gross incompetence. Forced to focus on children they had heretofore been content to call hopeless, these grownups materialize as the basis for the children’s problems.

The film reads like a Wes Anderson bingo sheet. The twee costumes, quirky characters, and warm color palette are all here, as is Anderson’s idiosyncratic sense of humor. While it’s delightful to see these elements employed usefully once again, such repetition raises the question of whether Anderson has perfected an aesthetic that behooves his storytelling or if he has simply failed to progress much as an artist. Highly particular to its fictionalized setting, the film could have just as believably been released in between Rushmore and Tennenbaums, almost a decade ago.

But then again, there is no denying that Moonrise Kingdom is a lovely addition to these slightly superior films. In maintaing his characteristic form, Anderson gestures in acknowledgment towards his fans, consistent in the face of criticism (most of which has centered around his reluctance to adapt). Certainly, the performances he is able to coax from Gilman and Hayward elevate the film to a much more than a signifier. Without these, it would be hard to say that Kingdom strikes the magic balance between style and substance; however with them, there is no question that Anderson succeeds at least in part.

Too similar to his previous works, and without consistent investment in the ensemble cast, Moonrise Kingdom isn’t quite the masterpiece you might be expecting from what you’ve heard. But it is a reassurance that Anderson knows his audience and hasn’t lost his potential for greatness. If all of the praise is actually a subtle pat on the back, a nudge in the right direction for Anderson, then it’s just as well. As surely as it satisfies, Moonrise Kingdom whets the appetite for a more ambitious second course.

3.5/5 stars

[ehorkley-blog]

Review: House of Tea

34th Street Magazine. 2/22/2012.

The creation of an architect–turned–circus clown–turned–pastry chef–turned tea connoisseur, The House of Tea greets one with a surprisingly subdued interior — aside from the Barnum and Bailey Clown College class photo that hangs ominously over a doorframe.

Despite the shop’s zany origins (the store is now owned by the aforementioned renaissance man’s daughter), it offers a truly remarkable variety of teas from every corner of the world, with a friendly staff happy to share their vast knowledge of the store’s offerings.

The intimidating number of teas, stored in beautiful brass jars of black and gold, are stacked atop one another in apothecary–style mahogany compartments covering an entire wall. There’s even a ladder that scales the wall, able to swing from one side to the next.

The tea selection comes from Germany by way of China, Japan, Taiwan and Sri Lanka. Some of the jars still even bear the picturesque logo of France’s world–class Mariage Freres house of tea, who they used to partner with directly. Looking past their impressive pedigrees, glamorous packaging and names like “Sword of the Emperor,” these teas really have been lovingly curated for every taste.

With over 200 choices to pick from at any time, you’ll find dozens of greens, rows upon rows of blacks and even a sprinkling of the rarer (and more steeply–priced) pu–erh and white teas. Though some may be disappointed by The House of Tea’s scant selection of tisanes, the other choices more than compensate for this lack — try (and by try, we mean smell) the Gold Yunnan, the Gyokuro Jade Dew and the Lavender Earl Grey. And if you have no idea what any of this means, don’t despair — the staff will lead you toward the tea of your dreams by way of your olfactory senses. Take your time and ask as many questions as you want.

Some of the prices may prompt a raise of the eyebrows, but a hearty whiff of most blends will subdue any nerves and justify any surprising price tags. You get exactly what you pay for at The House of Tea, in the most complimentary sense.

[ehorkley-blog]

Putting Faces to the Fire

The Daily Pennsylvanian. 1/25/2012.

Robert Cohen was in the Poconos with his family when the fire at Windermere Courts apartments, located at 48th and Walnut streets, erupted on Jan. 10. He watched his apartment complex burn down as it happened on the news.

Cohen received another important piece of information through the news — Windermere residents were being moved into the nearby Alain Locke Elementary School for the night.

Had he not caught the news of the evacuation on television, he wouldn’t have known where to be the next day to receive his security deposit, as well as January’s rent.

The way such security deposits were returned to residents is a matter of controversy. According to JB Farley, a former resident of Windermere, tenants were only given security deposits on a special condition.

“The management company just showed up and they were calling people in one by one to a room with them,” Farley said. “They had checks with their deposits made out, but to get the deposit you had to sign a liability waiver.”

College of Liberal and Professional Studies students and former Windermere residents Katie Shafer and Daniel Gerhart — along with two other Penn students who lost their apartments in the fire — are working with an attorney affiliated with Penn’s Office of Off-Campus Services to get their security deposits back without releasing liability.

The cause of the fire at Windermere has not yet been determined, but former resident Cheryl Robertson has an unsettling theory.

“If you ask me, I really believe that this was an intentional fire set by the owners,” she said, citing the suspect practices involving security deposits and the management’s inaccessibility since the fire.

“They wouldn’t talk to anybody and everything is just so hush hush,” she said.

Former resident Natalie Shaak had a completely different experience. Maintaining a good relationship with her landlords before the fire, Shaak was able to reach the management, and believes she will be receiving her security deposit shortly.

“A lot of those people are very angry, and they want to find somebody to blame,” Shaak added.

Robertson is also dissatisfied with the Red Cross’ efforts to help Windermere’s former tenants.

Having received a total of $150 in aid, as well as a $300 voucher for the Salvation Army from the Red Cross, she doesn’t believe the amount to be enough for her own and her daughter’s needs.

Dave Schrader, director of communications for the Southeast Pennsylvania division of the Red Cross, offers a possible explanation for Robertson’s complaint.

“There is a formula that we base the amounts we give to people on, and it’s based on what they lost, the number of people in their family, and what they need,” he said.

He further added that the Red Cross’ duty is to replace basic necessities lost for the victims of disasters, not to replace everything they owned.

“It’s not an insurance policy,” he said.

Farley, in contrast, was pleased with the Red Cross’ response.

“I was amazed that they showed up while the fire was still going,” he said, adding that he was also impressed with the speed with which the Red Cross assessed victims’ needs the next day.

As an organizer of several clothing drives — one of which took place Jan. 17 at Local 44, a University City bar located at 44th and Spruce streets — Farley has been happy with the public support he has received thus far. Donations were so great at Local 44 that the drive was shut down early because the organizers could not accommodate any more clothing.

Shafer received an outpouring of support from the Penn community, especially from members affiliated with the School of Engineering and Applied Sciences. An e-mail addressing Shafer’s loss was circulated throughout the Penn community, resulting in a number of personal donations.

She advises students who want to help victims of the Windermere fire to go to www.helpthewindermere.blogspot.com, a donation website moderated by Farley.

Gerhart has not been so lucky in terms of donations. He cites his large clothing size as being a factor in not being able to benefit from clothing drives.

Furthermore, with respect to on-campus aid, Gerhart said, “I really don’t know where to go in terms of where the clothes and donations would be.”

Farley is working on establishing a non-profit charity to raise money for the victims of the fire, but in the meantime, he urges laymen to donate to the Red Cross.

Schrader echoes this advice.

“The money that we get from donations is used to help folks in the next major disaster,” he said. “And unfortunately, there will be another one.”

[ehorkley-blog]

Review: The Kitchen Sink

***This is a piece I wrote for a theater criticism course I took while studying abroad in London. It was never published, but I did win a prize — The Lillian and Benjamin Levy award, 3rd place.

11/29/2011.

An exceptionally ordinary kitchen all but touches one's knees at the Bush Theater's production of Tom Wells' The Kitchen Sink. There's the cheap tile, the outdated cabinetry, and the faulty sink that's been spouting off arbitrarily for over a year. It feels like your kitchen – so much so that an usher has been employed just to keep patrons from absent-mindedly walking across it. With a deliberately misleading title, The Kitchen Sink turns its nose up at hard-hitting realism and instead offers a much more ordinary tale of family drama, unique in its affection for traditional familial structures and values.

Everyone in the Withernsea family has their quirks. Kath, the matriarch, seeks to broaden her family's horizons beyond their small, seaside town via exotic dishes at dinner. Sophie, the female sibling, is a passionate feminist who pursues ju-jitsu on a professional level. And Martin, the patriarch, is the most old-fashioned of the bunch – he clings to his profession as a milkman, even as it inches towards obsolescence. Despite their differences, they never clash in the way you would expect them to. For the most part, they are respectful and supportive of one another. Conflicts tend to stem from the outside world, which, though never depicted, has a bittersweet presence amidst all of the action onstage. Wells seeks to dispel the notion that there is any such thing as a "normal family", and chooses to focus on the kitchen as a safe haven rather than a locus of conflict. It's a heartfelt tribute to the comfort of home, that will no doubt be unfairly–maligned for its wholesomeness. 

Given his treacly thesis, Wells is certainly in danger of over–sentimentalizing. It's a pitfall that he largely avoids, thanks to his thoroughly–realized depiction of a modern family in a fading community. Despite the draw of the kitchen - which makes it difficult for the children to leave the security of home – one gets the sense that this family has outgrown its trappings. This is perhaps most evident in Billy's relationship with his parents. The fact that he is gay is mentioned off–handedly by an admirer of Sophie and never made issue of. Wells' decision not to make this a subject of contention is progressive for its refusal to play into stereotypes about people who grow up outside of major metropolitan areas. But beyond the familial refuge, there still lurks the prejudice that afflicts these communities most acutely. Sophie faces an uphill battle while trying to prove herself as a martial artist, and nearly ruins her chances of earning a black belt for rightfully striking an instructor who repeatedly refers to her as "feisty".

The actors in the play are gifted with fully-rounded characters, and rise to the occasion with the sort of deep presence you would be hard-pressed to find outside of one's own family. Especially strong is Leah Brotherhead, playing Sophie as a stoic, naturally falling into the background in her flamboyant brother's shadow. It is only when she is confronted about her iciness that her stony façade crumbles. With a startling screech and real tears, she steals the show. What is striking about Brotherhead's performance is its restraint, and its focus on capturing the small nuances that make up a person rather than a portrayal. On stage, she paces in the background and is guarded with her emotions. She all but seems shoved on stage, and forced to shine against her will. In contrast is Ryan Sampson as Billy. With his comically–tiny frame and bug eyes, he can't help but attract more attention than his sister, and is unafraid to show his enthusiasm for, among other things, Dolly Parton. He's in danger of overacting when he climbs up on the table to sing one of his idol's songs while celebrating his admission into college, but the glow on his face is palpable, and his excitement contagious. Of all the cast, he seems most at home in the kitchen, sliding across the tile in his socks and navigating it with his entire body. Lisa Palfrey as Kath and Steffan Rhodri as Martin, though admirably understated and believable, take a backseat to the performances of these young actors.

The changing of seasons indicates that it's about a year we observe the Withernseas in the hearth of their home. The kitchen faucet finally erupts in a dramatic torrent on Christmas day — but the sink is quickly repaired and the story moves on. It's unlikely that it's fixed for good, just as it's uncertain whether Martin will be able to save his business, or Sophie will earn her black belt. The Kitchen Sink doesn't tie up its loose ends – instead it allows us to be privy to one family's dynamic for a set period of time. And without pretensions, they are a new testament to Wells' refreshingly old–fashioned ideas, and uncompromising affection for the family unit.  

[ehorkley-blog]

Best of CineFest

34th Street Magazine. 4/7/2011.

Like a phoenix risen from the ashes, the Philadelphia CineFest is back, opening tonight and running through next Thursday. After a 2010 hiatus prompted by a lack of sponsorship, it appears festival organizers have utilized the gap year well, offering up an impressive collection of hits from this year’s biggest film festivals. Since we’re prone to superlatives this week, Street makes some preliminary judgments on this year’s festival oeuvre.

Best Comedic Salute to Deliverance The Catechism Cataclysm This opening–night feature actually has nothing to do with Deliverance, aside from its watery setting. Described on CineFest’s website as “If Satan rolled a joint, this is what it would taste like,” The Catechism Cataclysm is sure to offend some in its dark, parodic take on religion. A hit at Sundance, the outrageous comedy puts a disgraced priest and his pothead buddy in a canoe and sends them up river on a strange journey full of quote–worthy dialogue and stoner–friendly absurdity.

Best Catharsis for Your Hatred of Deer Two Gates of Sleep This largely–silent meditation on the brutality of nature features an unflinchingly graphic opening sequence of the killing and skinning of a deer. Such disturbing images are juxtaposed with beautiful scenery, prompting reviewers to compare director Alistair Banks Griffin to the great Terrence Malick. Expect an uncompromising feature sure to alienate as many as it mesmerizes.

Best Anti–Capitalist Entry POM Wonderful Presents the Greatest Movie Ever Sold Supersize Me documentarian Morgan Spurlock is back with an ambitious project with a contradictory premise: make a film about product placement completely funded by product placement. Titular POM Wonderful pomegranate juice donated $1 million to Spurlock’s cause — a bold move considering the treatment of McDonald’s in Spurlock’s last film. Another possible victim of Spurlock’s condescension: capitalism. Because there has to be at least one anti–capitalist political piece at any indie film festival.

Best Way to Let Your Date Know That You’re A Freak The Woman Coming out as a freak to the person you’re dating is no easy topic of conversation. Before things get awkward in the bedroom, it would be a good idea to take your date to the newest film by controversial indie director Lucky McKee. The disturbing film follows the “taming” of a wild woman by abusive means, sure to please few and unsettle all. If whoever you dragged to the film is still around by the time the credits roll, you’ve found yourself a keeper.

Best Way to Let Your Bi–Curious Flag Fly The One The festival’s obligatory LGBT romance The One is also one of the festival’s lighter offerings. An engaged investment banker falls in love with a former classmate, prompting sexual confusion and putting a damper on his future plans for marriage. Anyone whose amorous interests have ever been complicated by homosexuality on either party’s part (read: 95 percent of Penn’s population) will find much to identify with in this romantic comedy.

Best Movie to Make You Feel Better About Living In West Philadelphia Cost of a Soul As much as we all love our Philly hood, the occasional robbery or shooting sometimes calls us to question our choices. Cost of a Soul shines light on an extremely bleak corner of Philadelphia, making University City and its neighbors to the west look like Beverly Hills in comparison. Two returning Iraq war veterans move from one war zone to another, becoming entangled in a web of crime and corruption in their hometown neighborhood of North Philadelphia.