Fishtown and Kensington are becoming trendy neighborhoods, we all know this. This can be a shock for us natives. We’re not used to loft apartments, charcoal artists, or coffee shops. And though we at Philly Neighbor have a great time busting on the various hipster and yuppie newcomers, that doesn’t mean we won’t, from time to time, extend an olive branch.

Given today’s air of togetherness, I thought of a few poor hipster fellows I saw the other day – at a bar that will remain nameless, for legal reasons – who unfortunately didn’t understand the ramifications of getting into a fight with a handful of neighborhood guys. The (bone shatteringly brief) confrontation arose because of something a newcomer may consider meaningless: Tossing an extra dollar into the jukebox – “PLAY NOW!” – and thus cutting in front of a drunken Fishtowner’s playlist in order to jam out to some independent band we natives haven’t heard of yet.

NEVER bust up an F-Towner’s Keith Sweat juke swagger.

One thing lead to another, and by that I mean a retarded argument broke out, during which the hipsters didn’t understand the intricacies of neighborhood etiquette. They were quickly beaten down outside the bar, probably stunned about the fact that yes, there are indeed grown men in this world who will fight for their love of Keith Sweat’s only notable song.

Sadly, the confrontation could have been averted. And because I’m sort of a peacenik, I’d like to extend to our newcomers a few guidelines about how to handle themselves during those dangerous nights when The Standard Tap isn’t open and they’re forced to drink in an establishment that may not appreciate their quirky facial hair.

Don’t fear anyone who runs their mouth, aka the “I’m about to” guys: As most neighborhood natives will tell you, the guys most likely to start a fight probably won’t shout at you to announce their gangsterness. If you happen to piss someone off and the angry fellow says ten words before swinging, chances are he never will. Doubly true for those goofy neck-tatted wannabe gangsters in New Era caps. Those idiots all shout a variation of the same tired line: “I’m about to fuck you up if you step on my shoes again, real rap.” It’s common knowledge in the neighborhood that real tough guys will rarely claim they’re “about to” do anything. If they’re real tough guys, they won’t have time to say what they’re “about to” do, because they’ll be too busy kicking your ass.

Don’t mess with anyone playing pool: While a game of pool at a bar may seem like a trivial time-wasting event, it can actually become quite heated. The same goes for darts. Also, it’s never a good idea to piss off a drunken neighborhood guy when he’s holding a large wooden stick or a throwing object with a sharp, possibly lethal point. Yes, the reasons why these guys become so life threateningly serious about a game of pool at a corner bar are a mystery, but that doesn’t really matter because “You gotta back up dude, I’m trying to take this fucking shot.”

We understand you’re an artist, but for the love of God, clap when Ryan Howard hits a home run: It’s common sense, really. You’re enjoying dollar pint night during a Phillies game. You’re a quirky artist, so you don’t care much for sports. But that drunken crowd of natives? Different story. They will be personally – and gravely – offended by your apathy during the bottom of the 9^th, or your indifference about that bullshit penalty because Scott Hartnell’s glove was too loose to begin with. Why aren’t you pissed off? “Are you a Mets fan, bitch?”

We’re actually really friendly: Sure, we’re rough around the edges. We might even occasionally beat the crap out of each other for really inane reasons. But when you get down to it, neighborhood people will be as friendly toward you newcomers as you are to us. Just keep one thing in mind: We don’t like bullshit. It’s great that your work got into an art gallery, or that your post-punk-ironically-pop-rock-fusion band played a show last week. But labels and accomplishments don’t impress us like that. If you’re straight up, personable, and don’t have your head up your ass, we don’t care if you’re a lifelong Kensington resident or a trust fund kid from the ‘burbs. Just keep one thing in mind…

Seriously, don’t bust up the Keith Sweat swag.

(Editor’s Note: This is from our good buddy Chris Hanratty, the older brother of this Hanratty.)

Getting out to the corner bar on a Wednesday night can make or break the work-week. It’s hump-day. All you wanna do is go out, tie a load on, and relax, making the week just a little easier to get through. Not even a Thursday-morning hangover can ruin it.

Do you know what can really ruin hump day?: Karaoke Wednesdays.

That’s right. Karaoke night can turn a normal let-me-drink-my-fuckin-face-off-so-I-can-finish-my-work-week-so-I-can-drink-my-fuckin-face-off-some-more-this-weekend (too long?) Wednesday into a let-me-blow-my-fuckin-face-off Wednesday very quickly.

Now I’m not shitting on karaoke here. Hey if you can sing well, and have the guts to sing in public, kudos to you. I respect you. What I am shitting on is people who come out on Karaoke night who can’t sing to save their fuckin lives and think their gonna be the next big thing on American Idol, or America’s Got Talent, or whatever the fuck the new talent show is this year. I’m talking about the girls that come out and screech Paramore songs and dedicate them to every man that broke their heart, probably because they were delusional (and probably justified) and those guys that come out and sing “I’m Just a Girl” by No Doubt because they are a woman trapped in a man’s body.

These type of people RUIN hump-day. I have seen a lot of decent singers on karaoke night in my day, and, granted, they are no where close to being featured on any tv show. However, they aren’t bad singers either. I once seen Ryan Schaffer, without an ounce of singing or dancing talent, get through ‘The Cha Cha Shuffle’ with a standing ovation, although his pants did end up around his ankles by the end of the song, and a very deaf, mono-toned Victor Meronyck get through ‘Unwritten’ and still winning first place that contest. These two, although awful performers, were entertaining.

Nothing is entertaining about someone who truly believes they can sing, but can’t. While you’re up there hoping and wishing a record executive will walk through the door and immediately sign you, the rest of the bar is wishing you’d shut the fuck up and sit down. These singers usually accomplish nothing more than making your ears bleed or at the very least testing the integrity of your eardrums. Oh, and get boo’d. Because we’d all rather pay for the jukebox than to listen to your so-called singing. Yes, we talk about you behind your back.

From my past experiences, the people that mostly come out to sing are NEVER in the bar any other night of the week. It’s complete strangers who come out and impose their presence on the regular patrons of the bar, forcing us to put up with them or making us move to a different bar. Immigrants have always been a problem in America, just ask any Indian.

So when it comes down to karaoke night, here are a few simple rules to follow:

1. Don’t sing. Sit down, shut up, and drink you’re fuckin beer.

2. If you absolutely HAVE to sing, sing something that suits you, or at least sing something so ridiculous it has to be a joke.

3. If you get up and sing and it’s not just a joke, have a little bit of talent. Anyone can open their mouths and instantly be hated.

4. If you choose to ignore rules 1, 2, and 3, then sing at a bar you actually frequent, nothing will get you attacked faster than an outsider singing ‘Like a Virgin’ in a bar full of probably rapists.

5. And finally, Don’t sing. Sit down, shut up, and drink you’re fuckin beer. You didn’t get it the first time? Let us enjoy our fucking hump-day.

Somehow, some way, I tend to get along with most people I meet. This includes teenage drug dealers from North Philly and the Badlands. Although most folks would prefer not to engage these guys in conversation, I usually find it fun.

It’s sort of like talking to a cop. No, seriously. We all have this few of cops being uptight and dickish, chest-out narcs with no sense of humor. That’s why it’s such a breath of fresh air when you meet a cop and realize he’s just as much a drunken retard as you are (or I am, whatever).

The same goes for my pal Bird (not his real name or nickname). To see him, you’d assume he’s a hardened criminal. A stereotypical scary young black guy from the hood. And ya know what? He is, but only in the way that cop is just a humorless cocksucker when he’s on the clock.

Bird, 20-years-old, used to sell drugs somewhere in the vicinity of 2^nd and Lehigh, the largely Hispanic Badlands, or as Bird calls it, Papi Town.

A charming neighborhood

This, of course, is dangerous ground for a black drug dealer but Bird, who’s actually 50% Hispanic though you’d never guess it, “gets along pretty good with the papis,” as he says.

During my many conversations with Bird, I discovered that he’s a wonderfully honest career criminal. Unlike so many young ghetto dudes, he doesn’t glamorize or romanticize his profession.

For instance, he told a story – which I verified through some of his buddies – about a time he was arrested. He was handing off heroin to a dope addict when the police rolled up. Bird had just finished smoking a blunt minutes before and was, admittedly, feeling a bit goofy. As a few of his friends watched the police cuff Bird, the dealer began shouting: “You motherfuckers are locking me up when I’m just out here trying to provide for my family!”

The officer paused. “Are you fucking serious?”

“No,” Bird laughed, “I’m just fucking with you. C’mon nigga, lock me up.”

Some of you may have already passed judgment, maybe thinking he’s just another ghetto rat hustling bundles of dope. But for me, this story made me respect the hell out of Bird. Especially after he elaborated on what he said to the cop.

“The McDonald’s is right around the corner,” Bird told me, referring to the McDonald’s on Lehigh, between 2^nd and American. “If I wanted to (provide for my family) I could fill out an application. And if I had kids maybe I would, but I don’t so fuck it.”

Sometimes people are so full of shit that they believe their own lies, doubly so for criminals. But Bird, in all the times I spoke to him, never tried to sugarcoat what he did for a living. That, in an odd way, means a lot to me, given that half the criminals I’ve known bent over backwards to make excuses about why they hustle, steal, and rob. But not Bird.

Bird hasn’t been around lately. The last couple of times I saw him, he was on house arrest. (The worst thing about house arrest: “Them niggas will lock me up if I walk to the fuckin’ Chinese store!”) So either he went back to jail on a parole violation or maybe he’s dead.

Either way I respect the motherfucker. Even if you don’t respect what a person does for a living, you have to give them some respect for being honest about it.