May 1–8, 1997

cover story

Vital Signs

The stories behind the urban icons we live with every day.

By Jennifer Darr

I get the call early Thursday afternoon.

"They are taking down the Kesmon's sign right now," says an editor. "Go see what's going on."

I don't know the sign's sordid past — that it's been hanging above a hotel at 12th and Spruce with a long historyof late-night evictions, of gunshots and stabbings, of death (a manager was convicted of reckless endangerment in1987 for ignoring a prostitute who'd been slumped in a hotel chair for 36 hours — she later died of a blood clot in the brain) and abduction (Hiram "Jake" Thelmon kept his mildly retarded girlfriend locked in a closet in a fifth-floorapartment from 1993 to 1995).

But I know one thing right away — I want it.

Because I am crazy about signs. I once carried an old 4-foot-long Florsheim Shoes sign from Upper Darby's 69th Street to my Center City apartment, via the El. I had a broken toe at the time, but the store was shutting its doors forever that day at 5p.m. and the trip would add only one extra week's healing time.

It was worth it.

And I know this one will be worth it, too.

Because every sign has a history.

Every sign has a story to tell.

Photo by Julia Lehman.

The Kesmon sign makes way for a B&B.

The old-time animated neon shines day and night in the front window of Simon's Famous Hair Pair at 6052 Ridge Ave. When the word "before" lights up, the top of the man's head lights up, sans hair. When the word "after"lights up, neon-man has a full head of hair with glowing beard.

The owner of the salon, Len Simon, 55, thinks it looks like him. So do the neighborhood kids. Every once in a while they'll scrawl Len's name underneath it on the outside glass.

But 82-year-old Joe Feldman, who created the sign two years ago, tells it a different way.

"I was in talking to Len one day about repairs or something, and I went back to the section where he does the wigs and hairpieces, through swinging doors, like the old-time saloons. He had a customer and I said, 'I'm sorry sir, I don't mean tointerfere.' So he turned around in the swivel chair and I said, 'Boy, your face is familiar.' (I have very good recall at my age.) 'You're the weatherman! Herb Clarke!' I told him, 'You better make the weather nice 'cause I have an outside job todo!' After he left I said to Len, 'I got a terrific idea, why don't I make you an animated sign with a hairpiece?' And he says, 'Make it!' He didn't even ask the price."

Whether it's Herb Clarke, Len Simon or maybe even Mayor Ed, the sign is an attention-getter.

And attention is what small businesses want to attract with their signs, says architect Steven Izenour, a partner with Venturi Scott Brown of Philadelphia whose recent show at the Institute of Contemporary Art, ?

"You find the bar vernacular — the stainless steel facade, the neon — you find that in most East Coast cities. The ornamental richness personalizes neighborhoods. That is totally important in an American city. We use it todifferentiate."

Simon concurs. He takes out newspaper ads, but "The truth of the matter is, if people are not specifically looking for that service, it's not on their minds."

"But when people ride by [and see the sign], they realize what I do. They come in first for unit servicing [on their hairpieces], then they eventually need a new one. That's how I have been getting a lot of my business."

"And everyone gets a giggle out of it," he adds. "I believe in neon."

Photo by Julia Lehman.

Come with me...

Photo by Julia Lehman.

on a magic carpet ride

Simon's sign issmall compared to some of the creations of Feldman and his Ajax Sign Company, in business since the 1930s.

As a young boy in the Depression, Feldman and his older brother — the artist who taught him everything he knows — painted signs to get by. "You starved to death if you were an artist, but you survived if you were a sign painter," herecalls.

While in the Army, he learned more sign-painting techniques, and when he returned from the service a loan of $8,000 from his first wife's mother allowed him to open Ajax (unfortunately, without his brother — he was killed in the Battle of theBulge).

Feldman's achievements have included spectacular signs for Pat's Steaks and Levis Hot Dogs, signs for businesses owned by the late Cecil B. Moore, and scores of signs for North Philadelphia "tap rooms" and restaurants (including kickingneon can-can girls and red robins with moving beaks).

"I was the one that did animation when neon was in its glory," Feldman says. "I was wild. They were like mini-versions of signs in Las Vegas."

In 1948, he and Willard Richman ("you know, like rich-man," explains Feldman) took on a grand task: building the marquee for the Broadwood Hotel, which stood at Broad and Vine. The pair went to New York City to check out the front of theHotel New Yorker, which they decided to use as a model for the Philly hotel's marquee. They ran into a little trouble along the way: the red neon and chrome marquee was too big to build without a permit. "It was 20 by 25 feet," bragsFeldman. "It reached out to the curb!"

"We went under the table and were able to get the permits," he says. "You know what under the table is, right?"

(He jokingly recalls an old Philly aphorism: "They say Broad Street is the straightest street. But when you get to City Hall, it gets real crooked.")

The hotel was turned into the Philadelphia Athletic Club and the sign was torn down, says Feldman.

Many of his signs met a similar fate, but some of his best work has survived through the efforts of local neon-lover Len Davidson. He restored the multi-colored Pat's crown, which now hangs in Jack's Firehouse, and the Levis sign, which now sits atopthe North Star Bar.

But drive through almost any neighborhood in Philadelphia and you'll see examples of signmakers' artisanship that didn't get saved — shattered neon tubes and painted-over chrome.

—- Looking to catch a little of that glory, I grab my pen and notebook and head down to the Kesmon.

I take a shortcut down St. James, pass the coffee-drinkers at Millennium, and from about 50 feet away, I spot the sign sitting upright in a dumpster on the sidewalk, slightly blocked by about three '50s model appliances (another passion of mine).

"What are you guys doing here?" I ask a construction worker.

"Gutting the place," he grunts, burdened by a large piece of plaster. "We're turning it into a bed and breakfast."

"How did you get the sign down?" I ask, looking around for a crane.

"We just cut the wires," says a short gray-haired man. "And it dropped down."

I climb into the dumpster to assess the sign's condition, and partly to claim it before any lurking dumpster divers come along.

Red and off-white. Plastic and metal. About 4 by 6 feet. And not a crack on it. Amazing considering the weight and distance it just fell.

Would they do that to the PSFS sign? Just drop it from the roof? I don't think so.

—- The PSFS skyscraper — constructed during the Depression at a cost of about $8 million and the first in America to be designed inthe International Style — is a cherished architectural landmark.

Its sign, too, has become an intrinsic part of the Philadelphia skyline, says Izenour. But its fate has grown increasingly unclear.

When Mellon Bank bought PSFS in 1990, they turned the lights out. Though the building (and the sign) had landmark status and were thus protected from the wrecking ball, that didn't mean the new owners had to keep the sign illuminated.

Philadelphians wrote letters, angry and glad, to the local papers:

"It has always been an affront to the architectural beauty of the Philadelphia skyline," wrote one letter-writer to the Inquirer.

"Just turn the sign back on!" scribbled another.

They turned it back on in '91.

And just when preservationists thought it was safe to relax, along comes another potentially PSFS-threatening situation.

The Loews hotel chain will transform the 36-story building into the Loews Philadelphian by mid-1999, says a company spokesperson.

But what will they do with the sign? Slap a little more neon up there, so that it reads "PSFS-Loews"?

"We don't know what we're going to do just yet," says the spokesperson. "We know how important [the sign] is to the City of Philadelphia, and we plan on incorporating that into our plans."

"But even after it becomes a hotel it will still be PSFS," assures Izenour. "It is greater — more important than commercial identification. It's got iconic quality."

That iconic quality, he says, is part of the psychology of signs. Since the late 19th century there have been two kinds of signs: the corporate symbols — institutionalized, standardized, immensely powerful and recognizable all over the globe — andsigns in the "ad hoc" tradition — the little guys, constantly changing, totally idiosyncratic, covering every square inch of the urban landscape with signage.

He thinks both have their place.

"The golden arches can be quite beautiful lit up in the sky on a big pole."

But what really fascinates Izenour is when a company changes its logo.

"The image is erased off the face of the earth," he says.

Photo by Julia Lehman.

This way gals!

Though PSFS has transcended corporate identity, and has been spared for the sake of history (for the time being), some corporate signs haven't fared as well.

Drive north of Center City and you'll see a sign that escaped the corporate wrecking ball, but not the light switch. Sitting atop an unmanned substation at 2601 Hunting Park Ave. is the only remaining large-scale piece of the company formerly knownas "Philadelphia Electric Company."

The unlit sign is grand yet simple. PECO peddled a product essential to all human beings; they didn't need to attract customers off the streets. The sign's dozens of tiny white lightbulbs screwed into its large black block letters began shining inthe '40s, and remained lit every night except for a seven-year hiatus during the energy crunch in the '70s, says PECO Energy spokesman Jim Waddington.

Then, in January 1994, Philadelphia Electric Company decided it was due for a name change. After all, it provides more than just electricity — it's an energy company. Hence PECO Energy was born.

But changing a 113-year-old company's name isn't just a matter of re-recording a voice mail greeting.

In two weeks' time, says Waddington, 2,700 signs — big and small — were replaced with the new logo and name.

"The only problem was changing the signs that were etched in concrete, in the old buildings," he adds.

In addition to the more visible LED sign at their 23rd and Market headquarters — which endured the name change smoothly since it only had to be reprogrammed, says Waddington — and the Hunting Park substation sign, PECO had two others at theirDelaware and Schuylkill stations, both of which were demolished.

The Hunting Park sign was spared for financial reasons.

Just seven years ago, the sign was restored — bulbs were changed, metal was cleaned.

To remove it, the costs would be "astronomical," says Waddington. The sign is mounted on the roof. If the sign comes down, the building will too.

So for now it stays dark.

"We're not Philadelphia Electric Company anymore. We're PECO Energy. It's not our name — why should we light it?"

(Note: I am first in the sign-line when they decide to demolish.)

—- The Breyers sign at 43rd and Woodland is dark as well.

A year and a half after Breyers shut its doors and laid off 240 workers, the gigantic red and green neon sign, though not visible at night, still softens a few Philadelphians up.

"They worked you hard, but they didn't care what you did or where you came from. As long as you did your work," says Ron Kline, 69, a career ice cream man who worked at Breyers for two years. "It was the best ice cream aroundtown."

"They changed the formula when I was working there," he adds. "I'd go out and everyone would be talking about the flavor. 'It doesn't taste the same,' they'd say. I don't know what they did but everybody noticed at once."

Like the others who were laid off in the fall of 1995, Kline looked for more work and later retired to a more pleasant climate — New Mexico.

But the empty factory is still there, and so is the sign.

It's the dominating view driving west on the expressway. "[It's] the ultimate landmark," says Izenour, "Philadelphia's version of Boston's CITGO sign."

But it is not technically a landmark. To save the Breyers sign and make it an official landmark, someone would have to place it in nomination beforethe Philadelphia Historical Commission.

No one has done that yet, says a PHC spokesperson.

Though sign aficionado Len Davidson would like to see it saved, he's not holding his breath.

He doesn't see anyone putting out the money to repair and service the sign.

"Fifty years from now, they'll wonder why no one maintained it," he adds.

According to Breyers' Vice President John Gould, "No decisions have been made" regarding future plans for the sign.

Photo by Julia Lehman.

How'd they get it there?

Back at the Kesmon, I set aside any who-what-when-where-why-how journalistic instincts and ask the more pressing question: "Whaddya gonna do with it?"

"We're throwing it out," he says.

"Can I have it?" I ask the tall, dusty Kesmon construction worker.

"Yeah, if you can take it away," he says, checking out my 5-foot-4-inch frame with a look that says, Yeah, I'd like to see you carry this thing.

"I'll help you if you pay me," he adds.

I give him my most determined look and whip out the cellular phone.I dial the office seeking a spare distribution van, but I can't remember the circulation manager's extension. I hang up, call Dave, and ask him to help me out.

"Dave, I need Mark, can you put me through?"

He can't because he doesn't know his extension either.

Shit! I hang up.

"Listen," I say to the taller of the two. "What's your name?"

He looks at me suspiciously a minute, then says, "Larry."

"Listen, Larry, I've got to run back to the office to round up some help. Will you save it for me?"

"Yeah, but I'm outta here at quarter to five."

I look at my watch. It's 2:30 p.m. I tear down the street back toward the office.

My mind is racing. If I don't get that sign, I will obsess over it forever. Whenever I hear the name Kesmon, I will associate it with missed opportunity. Whenever I read an article about the bed and breakfast renaissance, my stomach will churn andgurgle with discontent.

Photo by Julia Lehman.

From Green Hill to Calvary Hill.

Kind of like it did when I read Peter Del Borrello Sr.'s obituary.

Del Borrello was the owner of the Boot 'n Saddle, that South Broad Street bar that was like something out of Johnny Guitar.

Outside the bar, a giant neon cowboy boot beckoned everyone from award-winning two-steppers to palette-toting art students.

But now the sign is dark and the door is locked.

And it's been that waysince longtime owner and Country & Western enthusiast Del Borrello died in November. His family, says realtor Fred Levine, just placed the bar on the market a month ago. The price tag currently reads $299,000 and includes"all licenses and permits."

But the boot needs a facelift.

Two years ago, the Inquirer reported that a worker wrecking the streets to make way for Avenue of the Arts cultcha bumped a backhoe into the 20-foot-high green and red neon cowboy boot, shattering a few neon tubes.

The sign still worked, but it would only light up partway. Del Borrello continued to feature C&W, dancing, and alternative bands.

Eight seasons later, the sign still hasn't been fixed, says Levine. "But it's not that bad. It just needs a little cleaning."

Levine emphasizes its location, just a few pirouettes from the PA Ballet's Broad and Washington headquarters: "It's the only bar for sale on the Avenue of the Arts."

Levine has contacted Bronko Bill's of the Northeast, the Taco House and other Southwestern types about the property.

But till then, the boot will stay lightless.

(Note: I tried to get a mortgage on the place, but I must first pay off my Lillian Vernon charge account.)

—-

The longer a sign's been around, the more questions it provokes.

For instance, say the words "Chester's Fun Spot" to anyone who has driven eastbound on South Street and they'll usually ask, "Where is that place?"

The sign itself is the source of the confusion.

Parked in a trash-speckled grassy lot at 13th and South (across from South Street Tattoo) for over 10 years, the sign with its movable plastic letters has always seemed more like a statement of Gen-Xdiscontent than an advertisement for a bar:pointing south to an indeterminate location, it suggested somehow that desolation and detachment are fun.

But recently, someone removed the name of the club, leaving the sign blank.

That someone was Chester.

"I only put stuff up there when I have something special going on," says the all-smiles 60-something owner of the Fun Spot, which is a neighborhood bar on 13th between Bainbridge and South Streets.

Besides, he has not been feeling well lately, so he's closed the bar for a little while.

"You know all those Delaware Avenue clubs with their big signs. I can't compete with that," he says, cradling his tiny white poodle, Chippy.

Hanging next to the door at the actual Spot is a sign from a previous owner that reads "Go Go Girls," and another above which warns "Must Be 21."

But the Fun Spot is not a "go-go" joint, says Chester. Since that sign was put up, the meaning of "go-go" has changed.

"It's illegal to have naked women dancing around," he says. "Not without the proper permits."

Before he bought the building, which he estimates is 90 years old, it was called the Hi-Lo, and before that, the Bumping Bootie.

Photo by Julia Lehman.

Manny, Moe and Jack, still at 41st & Market.

The fate of the Kesmon sign is in my hands now.I can't let them just trash a piece of history. Besides, what a showpiece it would make in my living room.

I rack my brain for phone numbers of friends with large automobiles: there's that one guy, he's got a van, but he's been busy lately. The other one, the musician, he works for a moving company, but he's probably on a job. Dad, he's got a truck, buthe lives in Lansdale. Julia, City Paper staff photographer, has a Bronco-type thing, but she doesn't have a beeper.

I get back to the office, looking for Mark.

His desk is empty, his computer is off.

I run across to the other office and page him.

While waiting for the page, I ask David, who's wearing a crisp tie and shirt, if he'll help me carry it if I can't get a car.

"Yeah, I'll do it," Dave says enthusiastically.

"Neil, will you help too?"

"Uh... sure Jen," he mumbles between bites of his Caesar salad.

"How about you, Brian?"

"But our lunch just came."

I don't care about lunch, I tell him. We have a microwave.

My phone rings. It's Mark, calling from Princeton, NJ. Sounding irritable (it's distribution day), he refuses to help, citing distance as the main reason.

I call Chris in advertising. He agrees to help.

We run into Julia. She'll bring her truck.

We head over to Spruce. Dave, Neil, Brian and Chris chat among themselves, rejuvenated by the fresh-air break. I'm 5 feet ahead of them, kinda like those little kids who drag their parents to the big roller coasters.

Larry is still holding the sign for me.

Julia pulls up. Her truck is too small, so we turn the sign on its side and carry it back to the office.

Back at 13th and Chancellor, the long, rusted-metal signpole is too long to fit through the office door.

—-

Len Davidson and the Philadelphia Redevelopment Authority faced a similar situation once.

If you stand on Market Street between 12th and 13th Streets and look up, you'll see the progenitor of the infomercial.

In the early part of this century, Market Street was littered with signs: buy a hat, you deserve a tailored suit, gosh would she look smart in a new dress, see what the ladies in New York are wearing, eat a quality biscuit, shouldn't you visitSun Ray Drug Store... But how did the Reading Terminal Market, which was tucked a half-block away from the main thoroughfare, draw the bustling and bartering crowds?

With a higher, bigger, brighter and more active sign.

A porcelain and ruby-red neon sign was plunked above the Reading Railroad president's office on the southwest ledge of the Reading Headhouse in the '50s, says a Philadelphia Redevelopment Authority spokesperson. Its blinking arrows lured shoppers insearch of fresh meat and vegetables to the market.

Though not original to the Headhouse, which was built in 1893, the sign has been there long enough for the city to care.

Just about two years ago, Davidson was brought in by the PRA to assess the state of the 10-foot-tall sign. Though it needs a few new transformers and some general cleaning, Davidson points out its notable qualities: the sign backing is painted withporcelain enamel (that means quality craftsmanship in the sign world. Porcelain is durable); the neon tubing is ruby red, an uncommon type (it is stained with the color rather than merely dusted); and it is animated (more complex and frankly, morefun than your run-of-the-mill constant-flow neons).

The real restoration trick, says Davidson, is the sign's location. Workers would have to climb through a window to get to the little nook. And once there, Davidson says, they would not have much room in which to work. A vertical lift would be nice,says Davidson, but aside from the costs for such machinery, the lifts would have to be parked in the street. Imagine the ruckus that would cause, what with the snarl of wires and general Market Street nervousness? There's also the option ofscaffolding from above, says Davidson.

"I hope it does get preserved," he says. "But it's in their hands now."

Since the PRA bought the building in '93, their hands have been busy developing, developing, developing. As reported by the Inquirer in November, a Hard Rock Cafe is slated to occupy the space by the end of this year.

The developing will not stop at the inside, says a PRA spokesman. They hope to have the Reading Terminal Market sign illuminated by 1998.

—-

Before the era of multiplex-superscreen-mammoth movie theaters with even bigger parking lots, there were one-screen gems like Overbrook's Green Hill theater. With their postwar chrome and neon marquees, theaters like this were a beacon for optimisticyoung Americans looking to catch a little Hollywood glamour on a Saturday night.

Fifty years later, Green Hill is still a beacon, but not for optimistic young moviegoers. It is now the First Haitian Church of God, headed by the Revs. Jean and Mary Vincent.

Before the Vincents bought the 60-something building in 1986 it was owned by a Catholic church and used for bingo games, receptions, funerals and as a youth activity center, according to Jean Vincent.

After they bought the building for $160,000, the Vincents removed the basketball court, extracted the 60 remaining movie seats, tore down the old screen to make room for a pulpit, laid new red carpet, soldered small crosses to the steel ticket-windowbars, and put a poster of praying hands where the movie posters used to go.

But they left the marquee, including the chrome and neon sign which reads "Green Hill." They simply added "Church of God" and "Eglise de Dieu" in black lettering below.

Signs like this one were permanent. They weren't merely plastic sheets with plastic letters glued on.And they weren't cheap. (In 1948, Joe Feldman's marquee for the Broadwood Hotel was a $10,000 to $13,000 job.)

Replacing this shiny facade will cost many a full donation basket. The Vincents do plan on renovating someday, but they don't plan on keeping the marquee.

"We want to make it look like a church, to give it a church face," says Vincent.

But until then, the sign saying "Green Hill" will remain a part of the church.

(Note: I have first dibs — don't even try it.)

—- Some of the guys are ready to give up. Leave the sign on the street, after we carried it all the way here?

We unscrew the rusted lugs and nuts.

It fits just fine.

Photo by Julia Lehman.

Ortlieb's, Third & Poplar.