Fourteenth Street Spring 2014

The Divine Lorraine Revealed | Online Dating Debunked | Punk Fashion Unpacked

STREET

FOURTEENTH SPRING 2014

Cheap

Heroin Is Back.

2 / FOURTEENTH STREET / SPRING 2014

CONTENTS

SPRING 2014

FEATURES 8|Under The bridge A look into Kensington's heroin scene, a drug buy and the A Street bridge.

14|INSIDE the DIVINE LORRAINE A photo feature that takes you on a walk through the much lusted-after building.

20|DATING IN THE 21ST CENTURY Skye Leppo dives into the online dating world and discovers it's not so weird.

MUSIC 5|BACKPACK RAPPERS Meet the college students who are balancing their music careers with heavy course loads.

7|FIRST LOOK: LA-DI-DA How a band that rarely practices together scored the soundtrack to a feature film.

FASHION

FROM TOP: SHAUNA BANNAN, LA-Di-DA, CHIKIRA BENNETT

23|MADE IN PHILLY The brothers who are making their denim clothing line in a factory in Fishtown.

25|FASHION NOTES FROM MY FATHER Nina Lispi grew up shopping for clothes in a fishing store and still hasn't recovered.

26|PUNKADELPHIA A look at the most popular punk fashion trends in Philly and why we love them.

SPRING 2014 / FOURTEENTH STREET / 1

STREET

FOURTEENTH Editor-in-Chief Kayla Devon

Creative Director Shauna Bannan

Managing Editor Nina Lispi

FROM THE EDITOR

Music Editor Skye Leppo

I haven’t spoken to any of these people in the last few years. I still hear horror stories from friends who have stayed in touch with them. Two have been in and out of rehab. One has a kid and the other has been arrested a few times. The third I haven’t heard anything about in almost a year. I don’t know what he’s doing or where his life has led him. I’m afraid to find out.

What I do know is that all three of these people try to convince themselves that their lives are on track. They have jobs. They have families. They have hobbies. They want to think their lives can remain normal while trying to maintain their habit behind loved ones' backs. They don’t look like “junkies,” but they do shoot up.

Many suburban heroin users have probably ended up in Kensington at one point or another. It’s easy to find a dealer when there’s one on almost every corner and it’s cheap—at least cheaper than Oxy —and it’s a better high. That’s why we wanted to focus this issue on the heroin epidemic that seems to be engulfing our generation.

We want to show people what’s really happening and make people more aware of how detrimental it will be if it continues.

Kayla Devon Editor-in-Chief

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Features Editor Cheyenne Shaffer

Fashion Editor Jennifer Nguyen

Senior Editor Eddie Durkin

Web Editor Andrea Iezzi

Contributing Writers

Kevin Stairiker, Amanda Kim

Contributing Photographers

Charlotte Jacobson, Georgia Smith, Kara Milstein, Tracy Nguyen, Chikira Bennett

Cover Art

Kara Weintraub Fourteenth Street is published by the Temple University Journalism Department. For questions or comments, please contact Professor Laurence Stains at lstains@temple.edu.

PHOTOGRAPHY BY ANDREA IEZZI

Y

ou probably know at least one person who uses heroin right now—whether you're aware of it or not. I know at least three.

Their addictions all started with OxyContin in high school. One had a prescription when she had her wisdom teeth taken out. Another heard about the high and took the pills her brother was prescribed after a car accident. The third simply had a friend who convinced him to try one. It starts off so innocently, but it turns into a craving. It’s a feeling you need to have. Maybe it’s once a month, then it’s once a week, then it’s almost every day and soon it rules every hour of your life.

!

CHANGE

IT UP It's spring! Get out and explore the city! Here are four urban watering holes where you can eat, drink and hit on the bartenders. Come on, they're not that far.

El Camino Real Northern Liberties - $$

This is possibly one of the best-known secrets this side of the Delaware. El Camino’s Mediterranean-meets-hipster-styled atmosphere and bangin' guacamole are a dynamite combination to enjoy, well, any night of the week.

IMAGES COURTESY OF (CLOCKWISE FROM TOP): Shauna Bannan, TRESTLE INN, ANDREA IEZZI, FRANKFORD HALL

What to try: Margarita (Caution: objects may be stronger than they appear)

P.O.P.E

Frankford Hall

The Trestle Inn

Fishtown - $$

Passyunk East - $

Northern Liberties - $

This place has all the nuances of a German beer hall. Inside, patrons sit at long, lantern-lit wooden tables, while the beer garden in back is equipped with a bonfire and heated lamps. Beers are served in traditional steins to complement the bar’s German fare, like hot soft pretzels and bratwurst.

Dimly lit, Pub on Passyunk East has the framework of a pub you might expect to see in the Shire from “Lord of the Rings” and an impressive beer selection with enough lagers, IPAs and ales to satisfy an Oktoberfest judge. This is a great place to kick back over some brews and a plate of fries.

There’s no other place you can find tasty bone marrow and professional go-go dancers. You’ll be dancing the night away at this whiskey bar with a friendly, young crowd in a ‘60s throwback lounge that has the perfect balance of a retro and modern atmosphere.

What to try: Hofbrau Marzen

What to try: Aioli Sauce

What to try: Kitten with a Whip

SPRING 2014 / FOURTEENTH STREET / 3

MIX IT

UP

!

Just because you're broke doesn't mean your taste buds have to suffer when you drink Vlad. Here are a few ways to make your cheap liquor taste better with items already in your fridge.

Cosmopolitan

Cuba Libre

3 Shots Cranberry Juice 2 Shots Vodka 1/2 Shot Lime Juice Bonus: Add Triple Sec

Whiskey Ginger 3 Shots Whiskey 1/2 Cup Ginger Ale

4 / FOURTEENTH STREET / SPRING 2014

2 Shots Rum 4 Shots Cola 1/2 Shot Lime Juice

Irish Coffee 1 Cup Coffee 2 Shots Baileys

Mimosa 1/2 Cup Champagne 1/2 Cup Orange Juice

MUSIC Backpack Rappers A small, not-at-all-comprehensive look at the city's ever-growing, everpotent, young hip-hop scene

By Kevin Stairiker

H

ip-hop is everywhere in Philadelphia: blaring from cars, etched in murals and vibrant on nearly every block.

Some young emcees are relegated to dorms and off-campus apartments to practice their rhymes between classes and homework. Pursuing a degree and music is a balancing act, with the former generally occupying the daytime and the latter enveloping the night. However, rappers with college certifications are nothing new, with notable diplomas varying from J. Cole’s communications degree to Chuck D’s in graphic design.

“The grind isn’t much different,” says Gabriel Wolf. Wolf, 22, recently reached that age the same way he did the previous year: onstage at a bar, rapping. This year it was at New Barber's Hall, just off of Temple University’s main campus. Currently a junior advertising major and formerly known by the moniker "Gabe Skrilla," Wolf has been rapping since his freshman year.

"I hooked up with The Baker Boys [producers] who gave me some beats," says Wolf. “It was off from there.”

After a “spiritual” trip to London during a study away program, Wolf made the conscious choice to rap under his own name and to spend some time finding out what it truly means to be a rapper.

"An emcee to me is someone that is displaying images with their words. My main strength is freestyling, and I think that is really PHOTOGRAPHY BY CHARLOTTE JACOBSON

SPRING 2014 / FOURTEENTH STREET / 5

BREAK OUT OF YOUR BASEMENT

MUSIC

With the abundance of free music circulating the Internet and every other guy with a MacBook calling himself a DJ, it can be overwhelming for aspiring musicians to stand apart without getting caught in an endless stream of basement shows. But we’ve seen some local musicians successfully break that cycle, and they were happy to share their advice.

Mumblr: the past, present and future of hip-hop.” Wolf has played around the city, checking off mainstays like The Fire, Kung-Fu Necktie and The Barbary.

Though school occupies a solid amount of the work week, Wolf has transferred much of his ad knowledge into advancing himself.

"In music, a lot of it is being able to promote yourself, and I've learned so much from my classes on promoting shows and mixtapes,” Wolf says. Spacing out projects between schoolwork is of the essence, so Wolf ’s next release, the first under his own name, is projected for release on March 29 of next year. Wolf expresses a sincere admiration for the craft, and smiles when he talks about influences, “Kendrick Lamar is really bringing lyrics back to the forefront. Hip-hop is on its way back home again.”

M

ic Stew finished college three years ago and still remembers it as a “life on the run.” Unabbreviated, Michael Stewart, 24, majored in history with a minor in physics and was a frequent contributor to the Temple staple Freestyle Fridays at the Bell Tower.

“I pretty much just winged it all the time,” Stew says. “A lot of sleeping on couches, wearing the same things to class multiple days in a row and cramming for tests last-minute.” Rapping now for half of his life, Stew celebrated his first year out of college by winning the Red Bull EmSee Freestyle Battle, judged by luminaries DJ Premier, David Banner and Big K.R.I.T. Though he sent applications to schools outside the city, Philly soon revealed itself to be a natural fit for the Royersford native.

“I stayed in Philly because I love it,” Stew says. “Everybody from my home is dying to get out of Royersford. It’s quaint, but it’s no place for youthful, creative energy. Philly is a loving, nurturing home for now.”

Following the release of his first full-length “Peaceworld” last year, Stew and his producer, SamLIVE, already have “almost an entire double album,” according to a recent Facebook post by Stew. As with many musicians embracing the Internet with releases, Stew is fond of “playing games with the Internet,” including but not 6 / FOURTEENTH STREET / SPRING 2014

limited to “throwing out teasers, mixtapes and random verses” on his website.

O

n the other side of the studio booth, Jeff Milnazik, 22, explains the often misunderstood job of song producer.

“When working with a band, a producer will often provide input on every aspect of the music, such as the arrangement, instrumentation and individual parts,” Milnazik says. “In hiphop, the term ‘producer’ tends to be the person who composed the beat.” In his senior year of Drexel’s music industry program, Milnazik has been able to balance school and music especially well since the two are essentially intertwined.

“I am blessed enough to be studying in a program that is focused so much on my interests,” Milnazik says. “In a traditional major, I would have had a much more difficult time concentrating on both.” Despite the similarities, one does often get in the way of the other.

“One of the main things that I’ve learned when balancing Drexel’s rigorous schedule and my passion for music is the importance of time management,” says Milnazik. “It became vital that I completed my schoolwork as early as possible in preparation for the many late nights that come with being in the music industry.” Milnazik’s final project has taken up the last six months of his life, but when it’s finished, it should be his most in-depth work yet. Titled “New Authors,” Milnazik seeks to “make a hip-hop album that incorporates live instrumentation and electronic elements.” Boasting an eclectic background in music, Milnazik adds that jazz plays a huge role in his sounds.

College is an obvious breeding ground for musical talent, whether students choose to work toward a music-influenced degree or master their craft on the side. To its own end, Philadelphia is diverse enough that there are performers for every type of niche in every inch of the city. A college degree doesn’t make you a great musician, nor does it stop you from being one. The key is, as Gabriel Wolf says, to see the similar tropes of both hustles and learn to make both better. And of course, study hard. n

Set short term goals. Wanna get a show in NYC? All you need is one phone number.

Want to go across the whole state in a week?

That's only six more numbers. Progress slowly. Fans help you break out...The more fans you have, the more seriously people take you. Also, don't act like your band sucks.

Underwater Country Club: Show up at gigs, meet the band and ask lots of questions. If you reach out to them afterwards, they will most likely respond and keep your band in mind for another performance. Most venues will let you on a bill as an opener at 8pm or an open mic on a strange Wednesday. Show up to this gig like you’re playing Madison Square Garden, and you’ll be sure to get noticed.

Agile Beast: Want deep house blogs to see a track?

Instagram video a clip of your song and tag it with #deephouse or #nudisco or whatever—people (and blogs) search those tagged posts all the time, and you never know who will come a-knockin'.

Shots Called: Avoid trying to play bigger venues right away. Shoot for small, cheap venues to spread the word—you'll find people who like your music, who would eventually want to pay $15 dollars to see you elsewhere.

Carolyn Thorn and the Appetizers: Have a strong web presence! And don't be afraid to contact venues when visiting or even online. Be willing to be flexible schedule-wise.

The Hundred Acre Woods: Practice and persistence are absolutely crucial. Play out as much as possible, even if it means booking your own shows.

Eventually you will not only find your own specific niche, but someone who books shows or runs a house will take notice and want to help you out. No matter what style or genre you play, there is an audience for it.

FIRST LOOK:

LA-DI-DA

O

ne young band of two old friends – who rarely practice together – is not the typical set you’d expect to score a feature-length film. But Downingtown shoegaze duo La-Di-Da is anything but ordinary. The answer to bottled creativity and summertime boredom, La-Di-Da is the project of Taylor Johnson and Brandon Bigos. The pair, who each play guitar, write and sing, have been working together as La-Di-Da for the past four years, but have only recently put together their debut album, “Suburban Plea.”

Johnson is also writing the yet-to-be released film, “The Youth Washed Up” with Bigos’ older brother, Scott Bigos, which presented an entirely different possibility to showcase the music. During the production process, Johnson realized how well the two projects fit together, and Scott agreed. A suburban manifesto was coming together.

In true La-Di-Da style, I recently had a chance to Skype with the trio while they were killing time on a couch in Downingtown to get some details about the collaboration process.

Brandon: We really didn’t have it in mind at all, but it actually worked out pretty perfectly – they’re both themed around the suburbs.

Taylor: It’s efficient.

I was also told you guys don’t really like to perform your songs together. But since you guys put them together, and you record them together – why don’t you like performing them?

So this worked out pretty well that the two projects you guys were working on fit together – was that intentional?

Who – or what – would you say are some musical influences?

Brandon: [laughs] Well, the thing is … Taylor just doesn’t like performing.

Brandon: Originally it was supposed to be a surf vibe.

Taylor: We also don’t have a full band, so it’s weird.

Taylor: It was over four years of writing, so each song would come from different influences.

We’d be influenced by something and write a song, and the next song wouldn’t come until, like, months later.

Brandon: We’re definitely more of a recording and writing kind of project, for sure.

Scott: When we were writing the movie, I didn’t plan on using La-Di-Da at all. I was thinking of other bands to use and then they started sending me stuff and I was like, “Oh, this is perfect.”

Because they had a perfect vibe for it.

When you were writing the music for LaDi-Da, did you have the movie in mind? Or did that come about after you had already recorded some of the tracks?

IMAGES COURTESY OF (FROM TOP LEFT): JEFF MILNAZIK, LA-DI-DA

By Skye Leppo

Brandon: No, definitely not. We wrote most of it before the movie, years before. The album is, like, four years in the making … slowly heading toward it. And the movie was just within the last year or so.

Taylor: Well, technically we’ve been working on the script for longer, but it really came together within the last year.

Yeah, you get that right away. What was the writing process for the album like?

Taylor: We generally wrote songs separately and we’d send them to each other on Facebook because I was living in the city and he was living back here …Very minimal practice. But we’re definitely not a band band. We don’t really ever practice. When we’re writing stuff, we work with recordings and we’ll add to those recordings.

And we’ll just call it a demo.

Brandon: We’ll generally send it back and forth and then keep adding stuff.

Taylor: We just keep recording over the demos.

Wow, that’s a really different kind of process.

Brandon: If we had to cite people, I’d say Pavement, Real Estate.

Taylor: The Flaming Lips album “Clouds Taste Metallic.”

What’s it been like to go through the editing process for the film as the two projects sort of mesh?

Taylor: [laughs] That hasn’t happened yet.

Scott: It’s happened in my head a bunch, but I haven’t put the music into the film yet. But I think it’s going to work out because I’ve been set on their music from the end of the writing process to the album making. You know, it’s pretty planned to go with it.

>> Download “Suburban Plea” (available on Bandcamp), and check out news of the film’s release at TheYouthWashedUp.com.

CO VER ST O RY

Under

Bridge

the

You want to buy some heroin, cheap? Drive on down to Kensington and find your "boys." Eddie Durkin follows one young suburbanite on a drug buy and ends up hearing a tale of woe under the A Street bridge.

PHOTOGRAPHY BY SHAUNA BANNAN

CO VER ST O RY

Stepping off the elevated train at Allegheny and Kensington, I make my way to street level and spot Matt*, my self-described “ghetto Sherpa,” at the opposite corner. He waves.

We have a mission today: to buy heroin.

Matt is a clean-cut, innocuous, 26-yearold white guy who looks too affluent to live here. Everywhere, and only partly because of my camera, we draw looks of curiosity and confusion. I’m asked more than once if I’m a cop.

Matt might look like a fish out of water, but looks can be deceiving. He moves naturally through the streets and strikes up conversations with a quick call of “hey, my man.”

Looking at him, a man who says he navigated a year of law school and now teaches Spanish at the college level, you could not identify his habits. Like so many others, he started off innocently enough with a pill habit at the tail end of college. A Percocet here, an OxyContin there—it didn’t take long before heroin emerged as the more economical opiate of choice. Along the way, he also cultivated an interest in Kensington’s other drug options.

Matt’s first stop is a Chinese food walk-up on Kensington Avenue. It has no furniture, just an ATM in the front and a bulletproof-glassenclosed booth in the back. Matt slides a dollar through the port and receives a glass pipe with a plastic rose inside. The rose is useless. This is a crack pipe.

As we walk along Kensington to make a right on Indiana Avenue, we pass McPherson Square, a place once called “needle park” by locals, possibly after the 1971 Al Pacino movie about heroin addicts, “The Panic in Needle Park.” It’s since been cleaned up and children are all over the playground equipment, laughing and playing.

Matt turns left down a side street on our way to the A Street Bridge. As we approach Somerset, we spot a man and a woman clambering out of what appears to be an abandoned house (“abandominiums,” as they’re sometimes called). The woman’s face is wrinkled with years of drug use.

10 / FOURTEENTH STREET / SPRING 2014

“Yous tryna cop drugs?” She asks.

“Where’s the best place to cop these days?”

Matt returns.

“Everywhere,” she holds her arms at wingspan and smiles.

K

ensington has been around since 1730, when a man named Anthony Palmer purchased land just north and east of what is now Northern Liberties and Fishtown. Politically it remained independent of Philadelphia until 1854, when it was officially annexed by the city. At the time, and for about a hundred years after, Kensington was instrumental in building Philadelphia’s reputation as “the workshop of the world.”

Traditionally a working class neighborhood, Kensington played host to a variety of factories and industries throughout the 19th and early 20th centuries. An immigrant working class population filled the carpet, chemical, machine and textile mills that still dot the skyline with their derelict smokestacks today.

Manufacturing was Kensington’s lifeblood, but at some point its heart gave out. By the 1960s only 75 textile factories remained open in a place that once boasted 350. As employment dried up, racial tensions rose. Despair set in as wages disappeared.

Enter 2014. There are more than 2,000 households bringing in less than $5,000 a year in the 19125 zip code alone. The population is still poor and diverse, with whites dominating Kensington’s lower side at 76% and a heavier concentration of blacks and Hispanics in the area surrounding Allegheny Avenue to the north. But racial conflict is no longer the major issue facing Kensington. It has long since been replaced by drugs—and the violence that comes with the territory. Today, Kensington hosts one of the most unapologetically open-air drug markets on the East Coast, its notoriety nearly

on par with Camden as a ground zero for quality dope.

“We mostly see heroin around here,” Officer J. Ryan tells me. She has been patrolling the streets of Kensington, mostly on bicycle, for about a year. “For the most part, we see white users and black or Puerto Rican sellers. We might deal with an OD every one or two weeks, and there have been more shootings lately. All we can do is put ourselves in hotspots and try to deter crime, but the dealers will just find a new spot.”

M

att keeps moving, first along Somerset, then down Tusculum Street. We’re quickly at the A Street Bridge. After a quick scan for police, we jump the low concrete barrier and head underneath.

There’s nobody here at the moment, but everywhere there is evidence of human occupation and drug use. An overturned bucket has left a long trickle of what smells like urine running down the slope toward the train tracks; it stops at two abandoned sleeping bags. Baggies and syringes litter the bare earth. Graffiti covers the bridge and its supports. One tag reads: “I’m a dope dealer…”

Matt readies the pipe he bought earlier.

He shows me a nickel bag of crack he got as a freebie from a dealer when he bought a bag of dope (similar to the fudge stores on the Jersey Shore boardwalks, this is one way to drum up business—and return customers). He uses his lighter to burn the coating off a bit of Chore Boy copper scouring pad and stuffs it in one end of the pipe; this is the brace against which he will light his rock.

Matt hits his pipe. The wind is rough and his lighter barely gets the job done. *Names have been changed.

Standing in the river of trash that lines the tracks, we notice another man on the far slope that backs up to Gurney Street. He is sitting on the exposed roots of a gnarled tree.

“Hey, can we talk to you?” Matt shouts.

“Hold on, let me get high first,” he yells back.

Jim* is a white man of nearly fifty years, and his heroin addiction is far from his only struggle. He tells us he’s also an alcoholic, a schizophrenic, an Alzheimer’s and dementia patient, and he’s addicted to Suboxone, an addiction maintenance drug similar to methadone.

Jim cooks his heroin briefly in a beer bottle cap before pulling it into his syringe. He says most of his veins just don’t work anymore, and shows us the remains of a removed abscess on his foot. He wraps his belt around his wrist, takes a swig from his brown-bagged beer, and takes the plunge, injecting heroin directly into his hand.

“When you have it, you feel like a million dollars. Guess what? You don’t have that motherfucker, you feel terrible,” Jim says emphatically.

“Yeah,” interjects Matt. “I like to tell my friends to imagine the worst flu they’ve ever had times ten.”

“Flu?” he snorts. “The feeling you get… anxiety…depression…those words don’t mean shit. It’s like, today I woke up; I was fine. I went shopping, got the idea in my head to get high — that shit doesn’t go away. It won’t until you do something about it.”

Jim grew up in the Kensington area. He had his first shot of heroin at 15 years old.

Again and again, he tells us that we shouldn’t be here, and his pain is nearly palpable when he expresses his regret.

“I hate myself because of what I did to my life,” Jim says. “I hope you see what the fuck happens.”

We follow him onto Gurney Street through a hole in the chain link fence, and he disappears down Tusculum—another addict walking the streets of Kensington.

“I hate to call them junkies, but you see people around here who look like the walking dead. It’s sad, to be honest,” said Officer S. Ricci, a patrolman I met at Allegheny Station.

“It’s like they’re trapped in their own prison.”

B

ack on Allegheny, Matt motions and we turn on G Street, which is currently a dirt road (“under construction”) and a mere block away from K & A station. On East Hilton, we spot Matt’s “boys.”

“Y’all got dope today?” Matt calls out. “What’s the stamp?” On the streets of

Kensington, “dope” has one meaning: heroin.

Three young African-American dudes are chilling on a stoop at the middle of the block.

The smell of weed is thick in the air; one of the dealers is finishing a blunt. Kids play on the street. Bouncing Latin music blares from a parked car.

One of the dealers approaches us.

“How many you tryna get?” He asks.

“Six. I got $60,” Matt says as he sits down on the neighbor’s steps.

The dealer calls to his friend for more bags. As the second dealer disappears inside the house, the first hands Matt a bag and takes his wad of cash.

“My boy’s got more coming.”

“Well, can I hold onto the money ‘til he comes back?”

“I hate myself because of what I did to my life,” Jim says.

“Sure.”

The dealer counts out the $10 he’s owed for the first bag and hands Matt back his $50.

His partner returns and Matt receives five more bags. He hands back the $50.

“You guys got hard today?” Matt asks. In Kensington, this is a reference to crack cocaine.

One of the dealers heads back inside to check, but comes back empty-handed.

“Nah man, we out.”

We part ways and head back toward Allegheny. The whole deal went down in a businesslike way. These are not your D.A.R.E. officer’s scary drug dealers; their system, and the hierarchical structure involved, is something akin to a corporation. Earlier in the day, we ran into a 19-year-old dope dealer named Richie*, who explained the trade.

Heroin is usually sold in bundles. On the streets of Philadelphia, there are 14 bags to a bundle, each containing about .1 grams, or about enough to stay high for a night for someone with low tolerance. The bags are sold to users at $10 apiece, with slight discounts for buying in bulk due to the way the trade is organized.

At the bottom is the lookout, who is paid pennies on the dollar to keep watch for cops.

Above him are the corner dealers, who make hand-to-hand transactions with users on the street. Higher up the chain is the caseworker.

These are the people in charge of distributing bundles to the corner guys, and they generally want about $100 returned on each bundle they invest. The corner dealers keep the difference; that’s how they are paid.

Caseworkers function as middlemen and henchmen for the corner boss, who is the highest member of the organization. The corner boss controls a territory within Kensington, and he is the one with the connections to score hefty amounts of dope. The corner boss distances himself from the trade as much as possible by way of the caseworkers, who take care of the everyday trials and tribulations of the drug trade, including the bloodier aspects of street justice.

In Kensington, these organizations are referred to as “drug sets” rather than gangs.

Each set has its own brands of heroin with the names stamped on the bags. Names like “surprise, surprise,” “infinity,” and “red devil” are common. Users will actively seek out stamps they know to be successful or high quality.

It’s risky work, but Richie is happy to have it. “When it comes to drugs, I don’t give a fuck as long as I can make some money,” Richie says.

“None of these jobs is hiring out here. I been filling out apps since I was 13, and the only place that ever called me back was Dunkin’ Donuts.

They told me I was too young to work.”

W

e make our way down Kensington Ave. to find Matt’s car. We drive to 18th street and park.

Matt gets out and heads to the trunk where he keeps his stash. Being a former law student, Matt makes a point of knowing his rights: cops aren’t allowed to search a trunk without a warrant. He gets back in and I hold out my notebook for a platform. He sets two bags down on top, spills one, cuts a line, rolls up a dollar and snorts the heroin.

“Shit, are you going to be able to drive?”

I ask him.

“Yeah bro, it’s not how you think it is. I don’t like that super-fucked-up, nod-your-headoff kind of high,” Matt says. “I like to take a little bit and chill. It just gives you a general sense of well-being, where everything is good and happy, you just feel great. If you do it right, you can be very functional on heroin.”

As he drove away, I wondered, Does he really believe that? But later I talked to him again; he'd gotten back to South Jersey. He was safe, sound and stoned—for a few hours, anyway. n

SPRING 2014 / FOURTEENTH STREET / 11

CO VER ST O RY

The Needle and the Damage Done Heroin is deadlier than guns in this city.

By Cheyenne Shaffer

Philadelphia may have a reputation for gun violence–we’re nicknamed “Killadelphia,” after all–but there’s a new killer in town: heroin. More Philadelphians died from heroin overdose than gunshot wounds in 2012, and its effect on the city has been even deadlier since.

Tasha Brown, who’s been a counselor at substance abuse treatment center Gaudenzia in North Philadelphia for 10 years, says she first noticed a sharp increase in those seeking treatment for heroin dependency last year. Previously, she adds, the use of crack cocaine was much more common. The average user is getting younger, too; Brown estimates the typical age among patients with heroin addiction ranges from 18 to the early 20s.

That’s consistent with a national trend: A report by the federal Drug Enforcement Administration shows the average age of first use among heroin abusers fell from 25 years old in 2009 to 22 in 2011.

“We’re just trying to figure out how this shift has occurred and why so many more people are getting addicted to heroin,” Brown says.

Officials have a pretty good guess: Heroin around here is both cheap and pure. When compared to nearby cities such as Washington, New York City and Chicago, Philadelphia’s heroin from South America is twice as pure and about half the price, according to information released by the DEA in 2013.

To be sure, ours is not the only city with a heroin problem.

Use of the drug has reached epidemic proportions in both urban and rural areas along the East Coast. In January, Vermont’s Gov. Peter Shumlin devoted the entirety of his annual State of the State Address to what he called a “full-blown heroin crisis” in Vermont. And the death of actor Philip Seymour Hoffman from a heroin overdose in New York in February brought more national attention to the issue.

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Studies show that many users turn to heroin as a low-cost alternative to prescription opiates like OxyContin and Vicodin.

The street price of these painkillers has risen dramatically since a federal crackdown on prescription drug abuse began more than a decade ago. Last year the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration found that individuals who abuse prescription drugs are 19 times more likely to develop a heroin addiction than those who don’t.

Heroin dependency is just as rampant in Philadelphia’s suburbs, busting the myth that heroin is somehow a “ghetto drug.”

Out of Pennsylvania’s non-Philadelphia heroin-related arrests in 2013, 80 percent occurred in the four surrounding suburban counties: Chester, Delaware, Montgomery and Bucks, according to data compiled by the High Intensity Drug Trafficking Area strike force, a joint federal and local law enforcement program that aims to lessen drug trafficking.

In Chester County, for example, 18 out of 24 overdose deaths last year were caused by heroin. The popularity of mixing fentanyl, a synthetic opiate typically used to treat chronic pain in cancer patients, with heroin has been particularly deadly, killing dozens of users in Pennsylvania this year.

“One clear trend from these statistics is that prescription drug use is a gateway to overdose,” Chester County District Attorney Tom Hogan said during a recent press conference.

“People start using drugs like oxycodone, then switch to heroin because it’s cheaper and easier to obtain.”

The heroin epidemic has prompted officials from Delaware, Montgomery and Philadelphia counties to begin pushing for state legislation that would allow police to carry a drug called naloxone, which has the ability to reverse the effects of an opiate overdose within seconds of its injection. Seventeen states, including New Jersey and New York, already permit police to utilize the drug. n

PHOTOGRAPHY BY SHAUNA BANNAN

PHOTOGRAPHY BY EDDIE DURKIN

PHOTOGRAPHY BY EDDIE DURKIN

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Heartbreak Hotel

PHOTOGRAPHY BY SHAUNA BANNAN

Breaking into The Divine Lorraine Hotel has become a sort of status symbol. If you haven’t already done it, you want to see the wreckage for yourself. So here’s a peek inside.

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY TRACY NGUYEN

O

nly 15 years since its abandonment, the Divine Lorraine Hotel at Broad and Fairmount looks as if it’s been desolate for over 50 years, with nothing left inside evoking its glory days. The desolate, century-old building now stands as a beacon of disarray between the decay of North Philadelphia and the bustle of Center City. A city official recently called it “a big, tall billboard of blight.”

The Divine Lorraine Hotel was opened in 1894 as Lorraine Apartments, one of Philadelphia’s first high-rise luxury residences.

Six years later, the Metropolitan Hotel Company converted it into a hotel serving wealthy white aristocrats for almost five decades.

In 1948, Reverend Major Jealous Divine turned the building’s use on its head when bought it for $485,000—all donations from followers of his cult-like religious movement called the International Peace Mission Movement. He renamed it The Divine Lorraine Hotel. It went on to become the first racially integrated hotel in the United States.

Father Divine provided his followers with food, employment and cheap housing. He also converted the 10th floor auditorium of the Divine Lorraine to a public place of worship and opened

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the kitchen on the first floor to the public as a dining room where people could eat meals for 25 cents.

Father Divine eventually moved out of the building into a $1,000,000 mansion that was donated by one of his followers, where he lived with his wife who was 50 years his junior.

He died in 1965, but his movement held onto the building until 2000, when the building required renovations. The movement sold it for just under $2 million to Tony Goldman, a New York City developer who has redeveloped parts of Center City. Three years later and no progress made, Goldman sold it to Eric Blumenfeld, whose father Jack W. Blumenfeld was also a Center City developer, for $5.3 million. Blumenfeld presumably tried to obtain the money to renovate the Divine Lorraine, but ultimately sold it in 2006 to the father-son developer team of Michael Treacy and Michael Treacy Jr. for $10.1 million.

Only two years into their project, the recession hit. The Treacys ended up salvaging every possible piece of the hotel. The windows were taken out. The tile and marble were ripped up.

Metals were scrapped. Hardwood was bundled. Every possible piece of the building was torn apart, stripping the Divine Lorraine

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY TRACY NGUYEN

PHOTOGRAPHY BY TRACY NGUYEN

PHOTOGRAPHY BY GEORGIA SMITH

of its dignity and history.

Even then, the Treacys defaulted on their construction loan from Amalgamated Bank of New York and owed $702,779.82 in back taxes. Then the Divine Lorraine Hotel sat and sat and sat, open to the elements.

This is when many people began breaking in, tagging it with

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spray paint, skateboarding on what’s left of the ground floor, and keeping sheltered against cold nights. One of the most notorious break-ins was in 2010 when Brian Jerome, a Temple student, broke into the building with a few friends and fell through the plywood flooring down five stories, breaking nearly every bone in his body. He remained in a medically induced coma for almost a

week after the accident. (Jerome is okay today.)

Two years later, Eric Blumenfeld bought back the Divine Lorraine and surrounding vacant area in October 2012 at a sheriff ’s sale for an undisclosed amount that’s been estimated at around $8 million, and he has since sealed the ground floor windows with cinderblocks to deter break-ins.

PHOTOGRAPHY BY KARA MILSTEIN

Blumenfeld’s plan is to turn the downtrodden architectural beauty of Divine Lorraine into an upscale apartment building, but he has not made any progress that we can see. In fact, we may not see anything come of it for a very long time. He might even sell it again. But for now, the Divine Lorraine will remain a symbol of destitution—or hope for what this city could be. — Kayla Devon

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Dating in the 21st Century:

A Collection of Subtweets, Tinder profiles and Emojis

By Skye Leppo

As a social media junkie, I’m both fascinated by and sick of research circulating about the stigmas associated with social media, especially when it comes to dating. When things fizzle out, do you simply delete their number and then ignore the fact that you have all the same Facebook friends and Twitter followers? It’s not enough anymore to just dive into a trashcan when you see them walking across the street, since they also liked the last selfie you posted on Facebook.

In the world of social media, everyone is still “friends.” What is the tech-savvy dumper/ dumpee to do?

And then you’ve opened an entirely different can of worms when it comes to starting a relationship online. You know next to nothing about each other. So Facebook says you liked three of the same bands, and you are relying on a few (flattering?) pictures and a flirting style unique enough to stand apart from the other fifty winks or matches that individual ends up with each day. Let’s say you do hit it off, and you start talking outside of the app. You text, you laugh, send a winky face or two and then meet up in real life.

I know as a journalist, I Google almost everybody with whom I come into contact first, and likely have spoken to them via email or Facebook before ever meeting them face to face.

However, when I realized meeting people online had become a common approach to dating with the ever ready utilization of apps like Tinder and OkCupid, I wondered if dating – and filtered dating, at that – was merely becoming something of a chore. And that’s weird … right? So then I decided to figure it out for myself.

Step 1: Download Tinder.

Step 2: Sign in with Facebook.

Step 3: Create profile.

Oh, okay. Advertise … myself ? Easy enough, I think I’m awesome. Wait. Am I supposed to list an Instagram? Are people on here just to get followers? Isn’t that cheating? And why did this kid have his “E! True Hollywood Story” as his bio?

I have to admit, upon downloading Tinder, I was immediately hooked. Swipe left, swipe left, ooh, swipe right, right, right. Match? What an ego boost! Check it out—the cutie from my lit class was on there—ooh, match! YES! Too bad that was three semesters ago.

These people were one mile away? Two miles away? I’d never seen them before. And they thought I was cute, too! I found the superficial nature of it totally addictive.

Fun fact: I started using Tinder on a Friday night on which I’d already made plans with friends. I bailed, just to keep swiping away. This – this – was living … just kidding.

I have to admit, I was hesitant to think I would actually make a connection with anyone via the Interwebs. But it was happening! And the responses were quick. The compulsion to sign in as soon as I unlocked my phone was getting difficult to fight – I’m guilty of riding the Broad Street Line with my Tinder app open, shamelessly swiping away.

And then, lo and behold, an ongoing conversation between a Tinder match and me led to texting outside of the app. Soon enough, we were going on dates. I knew others who – “crazily enough”- were meeting people online with hookup sites – not catfish accounts – and I thought that was all a fluke.

But it was happening before my own eyes!

I still received plenty of creepy messages from matches from time to time that I blew off. However, as I kept using Tinder, I couldn’t help but shake my own uncertainty about dating via social media. So I turned to my friends to see if they felt the same way with their encounters in app-oriented dating.

One of my best friends, Mark, started using Grindr in the heat of summer 2012. Having just graduated college and his current infatuation losing its spark, Mark made a Grindr account out of boredom and curiosity. After going on one lackluster date from the site, Mark deleted his account.

“I think a handful of people, self included, try to use it as a dating app, but that’s a bunch of bullshit. That’s why I deleted it and started using Tinder,” says Mark. He also added Grindr seemed specifically targeted toward hooking up.

I could argue that despite finding some success with the SPRING 2014 / FOURTEENTH STREET / 21

app, Tinder often appeals to people as on-demand rolodex of booty calls as well. But I digress.

Still curious, I reached out to another friend who uses Tinder’s slightly more acceptable parallel, OkCupid. Shauna, who’s been using the site for 10 months, says the ability to share and see more information from profiles than what is available on Tinder sets users up for a more enriching initial conversation. Shauna holds that it depends on the way one uses the site to get what you want out of it, whether it’s a relationship or hooking up.

“I think there’s a misconception about online dating in general – for OkCupid, for Tinder, for Grindr, for everything. People kind of shy away from it and think it’s kind of a joke,” says Shauna.

A joke then. Was that all people really wanted their online dating accounts to be? Just another username and profile to add to a laundry list of social media accounts? I mean, I knew friends of mine who made accounts on a whim.

Sharon, whose account was created after a friend dared her to do it, likes using Tinder but doesn’t take it seriously. “I think it’s pretty funny and you see some interesting guys on there, that’s for sure. It’s a good laugh,” she says.

On the flipside, I know plenty of users have met someone significant on dating sites. Liz, a Plenty of Fish user, also started out quite skeptical. “At first, I wasn’t all that interested and did it as more of a joke than anything else, but I also figured that it couldn’t hurt to try it and see what it was like. I liked the idea because it put me in control.”

Joke’s on Liz – for the past eight months, she’s been dating a guy she met on Plenty of Fish.

“The site definitely has the reputation that many people on there are just looking for a hook-up … even though the majority of people that contact you probably aren’t looking for anything serious, there are definitely those looking for more.”

But when it comes down to telling friends how she met her boyfriend, Liz shares that it does get a bit complicated.

“Even though online dating is becoming increasingly common, I feel like people believe guys and girls only need to join the site if there’s something wrong with them, making them incapable of finding someone on their own, which definitely isn’t always the case,” Liz says. “I haven’t always felt completely comfortable telling people where I met my boyfriend because of this stigma.”

Michelle, another friend who’s had a few Tinder matches she met in real life, views it for what it is: an app. While she says that there is a stigma attached to the idea of online dating, she shrugged it off as a way to utilize time and energy effectively.

“We are a very busy generation and don’t always have time to meet people on a random night out,” says Michelle.

As for the “shallow” effect of looks-based apps like Tinder, Michelle’s approach actually made a good point that most people overlook when criticizing the “hot-or-not” ideal that accompanies these sites.

“If you were at a bar and were initially attracted [to a person] because they were cute, it’s the same concept. From that point it’s the individual’s choice of where the night would take them,” Michelle says. “But I’ve gone on dates with different people [from Tinder] and there’s no push to just get drunk and have sex.”

“I think there’s a misconception that everyone is online dating just for sex, but it’s really about what you put into it,” says Shauna. “People are serious about it … and [other] people don’t really know what it’s about until they try.”

Trying new things is often terrifying and immediately becomes tagged as weird. I felt the stigma of the app when I started using it, and while I won’t say my hesitation toward online dating is gone, I don’t think of it as weird anymore.

I guess while I was worried about the online aspect interfering with the natural stages of conventional dating, I realized, what the hell can we file under “conventional dating” anyway? The process of getting to know a stranger is a risk no matter how you meet, so why not just use the time you’ve got on your subway ride to swipe right? n *Names have been changed.

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FASHION MADE IN PHILLY

Meet the guys behind Norman Porter, a denim brand designing and manufacturing its clothing in Fishtown.

By Jennifer Nguyen

N

orman Porter co-founder Michael Stampler leans over his spacious worktable as he cuts out seemingly abstract shapes, carefully traced with white chalk, from various denim pieces. The mechanical fabric cutter hums energetically as it slices through the medium-wash denim.

“There are a lot of pieces, but that’s what’s needed to put the jeans together,” Stampler says between the buzzes of the fabric cutter.

Amidst the sprawl of red brick buildings in Philadelphia’s Fishtown neighborhood is a cove dedicated to the city’s own jean-producing studio: The workshop for local denim brand Norman Porter.

The workshop is brightly lit with warm natural light that peers through windows spanning across the room. A dozen of various sewing machines, many of which date from the early 20th century, take charge of the table space throughout the studio. Denim in various washes hangs throughout the studio, with pattern outlines of several sizes also suspended above the main worktable. Although this is a working studio, the room is comforting and homey, with Christmas lights above a desk and even a pair of longhorns hanging from a wall, draped with an American flag for a more patriotic twist. The rustic Americana feel of the room embraces the studio’s purpose of producing Americanheritage denim products.

“What is the most American, plain thing I can do? It’s to make blue jeans. Everyone has an opinion,” Stampler says, “everyone likes to break them in and they’re something that needs to be replaced. Even if you have a quality product that lasts longer, it still has a life cycle."

PHOTOGRAPHY BY CHIKIRA BENNETT

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FASHION

What began as an experimental business venture turned into a career, and Norman Porter continues to develop as a growing local brand in Philadelphia under the reins of Stampler and his older brother and company co-founder, David (Michael is 27, David is 30). While Michael handles the hands-on work, David generally is in charge of the financial end of the business.

“We come together for the marketing and branding stuff, but David is technically the C.F.O of this company. He probably wears 10 other hats as well,” Stampler says.

With the dozen or so different sewing machines stationed throughout the room, it may seem that a full workforce is in tow to create Norman Porter’s denim goods, which also include hats and jackets. However, usually it’s just Stampler at the helm of the nitty-gritty handiwork, with each machine serving its own individual purpose in the jean-making process.

“For example, the serger does the reinforcing stitch out a cut seam to keep the fabric from fraying, and there’s a machine that makes a stitch that is a series of knots all in a row,” Stampler explains as he points out the numerous vintage-looking sewing machines throughout the workshop.

“There’s your standard sewing machine here, which does about 80 percent of all the work on a pair of jeans. But you need all the other ones for the other stuff.”

Since most the sewing machines date from the 20th century, finding all the right machines for the job seems to be a long process for Norman Porter, with Stampler traveling as far as Boston to buy specific machines.

“I definitely have to know which machines I’m looking for. A lot of them I just got lucky with – I would be going out and about and find them,” Stampler says.

Norman Porter utilizes denim from Japan and the United States, though Stampler admits that he uses the American-made denim the most.

Most particularly, Norman Porter is known for creating jean products with denim called “selvage,” which comes from Cone Mills in Greensboro, North Carolina. The way that the threads are continuously woven together creates denim with a smooth edge and clean finish, and that makes for a sturdy, crisp pair of jeans. Although the quality of Japanese denim is sometimes superior, Stampler opts for the American denim twice as much.

And as a brand that takes pride in its “Made in America” concept, it makes perfect sense.

Learning about different variations of denim was not the beginning of Stampler’s foray into creating clothing – he had to hone his sewing skills, especially since he had no prior background in fashion before his Norman Porter days. Despite the arduous process of learning to sew, what served 24 / FOURTEENTH STREET / SPRING 2014

as an even bigger challenge for Stampler was learning how to create his own patterns for the denim design.

“Learning to sew was a process over a number of years. It was horrible, and the patternmaking was also horrible. What’s nice about the growing pains of that is now we know how to do the patternmaking really well. If we want to put out anything new, it’s about one day’s worth of time in order to make and prototype it. We save time by doing it ourselves,” Stampler explains.

Saving time means that the Stampler brothers can work on reaching a wider audience across the country. Even though Stampler wants to keep production in Philadelphia, he hopes that the Norman Porter brand can cross state lines.

“I don’t want to be sitting behind a sewing machine forever,” Stampler jokes. “I want to bring this to a point where we can just handle the direction of it and I might just be in charge of prototyping designs.”

Until that time comes, Norman Porter will continue to grow as a mainstay in “made in Philly” fashion, and Stampler hopes to have a flagship store in the city one day. But one thing that Norman Porter won’t be doing anytime soon is creating a women’s denim collection.

“It’s a lot of work, to create jeans for women,” Stampler says, “We’d rather have one thing done really well right now.”

Naturally, it made sense to make a classically American garment in the birthplace of the United States. In a world of outsourcing and importing, locally made products are becoming more difficult to come by, especially in Philadelphia. Although the city is a growing fashion base, it still doesn’t have a significant standing in terms of Americanmade fashion. However, Stampler believes that with time, Philadelphia, as well as the rest of the country, will “get it right” in the near future.

“It’s amazing how much isn’t made here anymore and it’s kind of an old world thing. It’s funny that I’m doing a job that hundreds of people used to do all across America in different factories,” Stampler explains. “It was just a regular old job. But now it’s sort of glamorous and it doesn’t make a lot of sense because I’m just doing what someone else used to do.”

And with that, he zips through his last piece of outlined denim with the fabric cutter, and now all the pieces are ready to be sewn into a quintessentially Philly pair of jeans. n >> Norman Porter denim can be found at Totem Brand (South Philadelphia), Trove General Store (Paoli) and Art in the Age (Northern Liberties).

PHOTOGRAPHY BY CHIKIRA BENNETT

Everything I (Don’t) Know About Fashion, I Learned from My Father By Nina Lispi

D

on’t get me wrong, my dad is a great guy. He’s funny, smart and warm. He cultivated in me a love of the outdoors and taught me most of what I know about the migration patterns of Canada geese. He’s one of my best friends.

But he also ruined my fashion sense.

After the demise of my parents’ marriage, my dad and I could fend for ourselves about as well as you’d imagine: dust bunnies in every corner, an empty refrigerator and more televised golf and fishing tournaments than I care to remember. Stylish clothing wasn’t exactly a priority at our house.

At my Catholic elementary school, we, that is, the girls (it was explicitly clear that clothing was to be genderspecific) wore polyester blend oxford shirts and navy-plaid skirts so stiff, they practically stood up by themselves. At the time I had a bob haircut, which I thought was fine, but a particularly mean girl felt it necessary to inform me that it made me look like a dyke. Clunky brown Skechers and knee-highs that always seemed to fall around my ankles completed this stylish look. My fashion role models wore skirt suits or habits.

Outside of school, my options usually involved camouflage, paint splatter or some sort of advanced climate control system. Normal people go to Bass Pro Shops to buy hip waders and rifle scopes. We went there to buy jeans, sweaters, shoes and socks. I’m not sure I knew the difference until I reached my mid-teens.

As I progressed to Catholic high school, the skirts were shorter and softer (but still plaid) and I wore the same pair of shoes for four years. It became difficult to separate my sweater vest and me. I was only vaguely aware of the way pants were supposed to fit, because in the eyes of my more fashionable classmates, my Bass Pro cargo pants weren’t cutting it. But high school didn’t last forever, and eventually, I needed real clothing.

Bass Pro Shops aside, my dad is not a shopper. We can go to Macy’s for about 45 minutes before he starts to get antsy. If I need clothing for a

special occasion, it’s easier to borrow something from a friend or sort through hand-me-downs from one of my 14 first cousins than it is to shop with him. He makes the process of selecting an item of clothing almost as painful as wearing it, if the garment itself were three sizes too small and trimmed in thumbtacks. Most of the time, though, my clothing fits and is at least relatively comfortable. It’s just not what I want, even if I’ve picked it out myself.

The alternative to shopping with my father was hitting the racks with my 60-year-old maiden aunt. She tried to put me in clothes a 1980s news anchor wouldn’t be caught dead in: jackets with enormous shoulder pads, dramatically flared pants and skirts that looked like something out of a Laura Ashley catalog. Understandably, I was not receptive to her well-intentioned advice. I departed for college with four pairs of pants and a Rubbermaid tote full of logo T-shirts.

I’ll sometimes see a well-dressed woman on the street and catch myself thinking, She looks so put together. I wish I could do that.

Set me loose in a store and I can almost put an outfit together. My female friends have successfully guided me toward shirts that are neither plaid nor flannel. But if I’m being honest, I have never left a store triumphant, having conquered that shopping trip. Nine times out of 10, I just want to go home and put on a pair of my dad’s hand-me-down pajama pants.

In a matter of weeks I will graduate from college, but you wouldn’t be able to tell that by looking at my wardrobe. So far, I have resisted shopping for anything besides fruit roll-ups and beer for many months. I don’t plan on wearing technical gear, sweatpants, overalls or free T-shirts to job interviews or my future job (unless, of course, I find my calling as a fitness instructor or commercial fisherman.) What will I wear? Your guess is as good as mine. n

>> Nina, age 3. It hasn't gotten any better.

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FASHION

PUNKADELPHIA

By Amanda Kim

If you think punk fashion is all the same, think again! Rob Windfelder and Stefanie Jollis own Crash Bang Boom, a punk boutique located on South Street in Philadelphia, they say that a typical punk outfit is not just the standard black from head to toe.

It's taking pieces like leather jackets, ripped splattered jeans, chains, killer boots, bandanas and studded leather bands and creating your own edgy style.

If you Want to experiment with the "punk look" but don't know where to start, See which of the many punk styles works for you.

Anarcho – This is your typical all-black clothing with tight pants, t-shirts and boots.

Many like to pull off Mohawk hairstyles and spikes.

Celtic Punk – This Irish-inspired punk style incorporates traditional clothing of the “Emerald Isle” with hardcore punk clothing pieces. Think kilts with black leather boots.

Glam Punk – Animal prints, brightly colored clothing, glitter and brightly dyed hair are commonplace in glam punk fashion.

Gothic Rock/Horror Punk – This style is a sexier update on the typical gothic look.

Classic “spooky” fashion elements like skulls and crossbones are normally worn on t-shirts and accessories.

Pop Punk – Pop punk is a spin-off of the “skater boy” style, which includes baggy pants, band hoodies, wristbands, skinny jeans, boots and even Converse sneakers.

Street Punk – Ripped, tight and patched jeans and splattered bleach on denim are considered street punk. High-fashion designers are updating the look with studs on belts, shirts, pants, earrings, necklaces and more.

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Photography by Andrea Iezzi

"I always start with the shoes," says Chris Malo. "And I work my way up."

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Ariana Lee rocks an anarcho look with a softer spin and a splash of color.

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