---

The question of the hour has become this: do I like Peter Frampton enough to brave the half million tourists on the Ben Franklin Parkway on the Fourth of July?

I think the answer might be no.

One of the fun things about living in Philadelphia is that the Fourth of July holiday is always rife with free stuff to do. Sure, I have to navigate the tourists to do them, but sometimes it's worth it. And, you know, sometimes there are even ways around it.

Let's take, for instance, fireworks. The big, professional kind, that is. I don't like fighting crowds and worrying about having my wallet stolen, so I generally don't hit the Parkway or Penn's Landing. And I think baseball is incredibly boring, so there's no way I would attend a game to see the fireworks afterward. But for many years now, Craig and I have been parking behind the stadium, putting a blanket in the back of his truck, and watching the fireworks from there. Cheap and fun. And you can see the Penn's Landing fireworks just fine from the park down the street from my house. There are crowds of Fishtown mullets to deal with, but at least no one is pickpocketing you [in theory].

Perhaps, if I'm very nice, I'll be able to convince Craig to drive to Long Beach Island Friday night for fireworks. Hrmmm.

---

Sometimes I'll look at something and it looks funky, but then I'll look again and it'll be all good. Today I did a triple take when I looked down the Parkway, but things were still odd-looking. Take a look at the photo and see if you can guess why.

Of course, if you read my earlier post today about Love Park you already know: the city dyed the fountain water blue. Really, it was more turquoise. It wasn't as pretty as the magenta fountain that resulted from vandalism last month, but it was relaxing to just sit at the fountain, staring at the purty blue water and knitting.

Craig wondered if perhaps the city had put a chemical into the water that turns blue when it comes in contact with urine. That fountain [and all the others in the city] are well known for their after hours usage as a homeless person bath and toilet. But I was assured by a Streets Dept. employee that the blue water was intentional. And now the more I look at the photos, the more it looks like toilet water. Hrmmmm.

For a larger view, click the thumbnail:

---

So I was just outside putzing around during my lunch hour. I was at the corner of 17th and JFK, and two businessmen were parting ways after lunch.

Businessman #1: Thanks so much for taking me to lunch!

Businessman #2: Oh sure! Thanks for not choking!

What?

And on an unrelated note, the water in Love Park fountain is turquoise today. You might remember last month some vandals poured dye into the filtration system and made it hot pink. So now the city has dyed the water themselves. It's not as pretty as the pink water, but still better than plain old clear water. I have photos, but no camera cord...so you'll just have to come back later.

---

As promised yesterday, welcome to the go fish Fourth of July holiday skin! If you have previously chosen a skin, the new skin will not automatically be reflected. So chose the new skin by clicking here.

If you hate the holiday skin, you can either wait it out until next Sunday or you can click here to choose an alternate skin. There are 11 other skins -- one of them should suit you!

Speaking of the holiday, it's one of my least favorite times of the year. It's not because of my common sense-challenged neighbors. I do like fireworks, but I prefer to leave them in the hands of professionals who rarely burn shit down or kill each other in the process. It's the tourists.

With the new Constitution Center opening this week, and all the other historic sites in Philadelphia, the tourists are going to be all over town [like white on rice, which is one of my favorite expressions because it's so stupid], swarming like parasites. I realize tourism is a necessary evil around here. It brings in money for the city and that's a good thing. What isn't a good thing are the millions of country bumpkin dumbasses who have never seen a building higher than four stories and don't understand common courtesy.

While I seriously doubt any of you would come to town and act like fucktards, I have some suggestions for anyone who happens to visit Philadelphia:

• Before you come to Philadelphia, take a look at the city map. You will likely only be visiting two or three sections of the city so it won't be difficult to grasp a basic idea of the way the city is laid out. In Center City, Olde City, Society Hill, and Queens Village [which are the neighborhoods you're most likely to be roaming freely in] the streets are basically laid out in a grid. The numbered streets run North-South. Market Street is the "0" point. The higher the numbered addresses get on a numbered street [ie, 3121 S. Fourth Street], the further you are from Market Street. On any street that runs perpendicular to a numbered street [streets that run East-West], the higher the numbered address, the further West you are going. It isn't a difficult concept. Learn it, love it. Don't ask me where the fuck you are because you can't be bothered to read a map.
• If you are consulting a map like a good tourist, do not stand in the middle of the sidewalk. Haul yourself and your stroller and bags, and immediate and extended family off to the side. No one likes navigating around you circus freaks. And don't walk into me or anyone else when your little posse decides to start walking again.
• I understand that you're in Philadelphia and want to sample the local delicacies. But that "cheesesteak" you picked up near the Liberty Bell is nothing more than Steak 'Um on a hot dog roll -- do your homework before you get here. There are only three places to get a decent cheesesteak in Philly: Pat's, Geno's, and Jim's. Beyond that, don't fucking bother.
• For the love of Pete and all that's holy: please [I'm begging] do not do the Rocky run up the steps of the Art Museum. It's tired.
• If you manage to find your way into a restaurant that actual Philadelphians frequent, do not tie up the server's time asking stupid questions about Philadelphia. She's busy, I'm hungry, and you should have purchased a guidebook.
• Speaking of restaurants, this is not Mayberry. Give your server a good tip. Don't leave $1 when your bill came to $75.00. 15% is standard, but it's nicer to leave 18%-20% if you have a nice waitperson. This whole problem hillbillies have with tipping decently gives all tourists a bad name.
• Don't come to my city and complain about it. I don't care if you think the streets are dirty, the homeless people are gross, and the city smells. Perhaps you should have stayed at home where the aroma of cow manure permeates the air and the only thing to do for entertainment is watch your livestock get it on and get excited over Wheel of Fortune.

I feel better now. The tourist bitch session is out of my system now. I'm even feeling rather tranquil.

Until tomorrow, anyway.

---

We all know by now that my neighbors are absolutely retarded. And I mean that in the strictest sense of the word. If you don't believe me be sure to spend the week leading up to July 4th at my house.

Earlier today three drunk morons were in the alley next to my house blowing up quarter sticks of dynamite. Dynamite. While drunk. After three sticks I think someone either chased them away or they blew themselves up. For the last hour some stupid fucker has been setting off what seems to be a box of miscellaneous fireworks. I'm expecting to hear an ambulance howling through the streets any minute now.

In case you didn't know, most fireworks are illegal for personal ownership in Pennsylvania. It kind of seems like a silly thing. I mean, if you can't be responsible enough to handle minor explosives, well, you probably shouldn't be able to walk freely through the streets. Of course, most Fishtown residents have the IQ of mold.

Every year it's the same thing. Someone [well, several someones] gets the idea that blowing off fireworks late at night is a great idea. And since these fuckers don't feel like blowing up their own homes or burning their small backyards, they do it in the middle of the street. So what you end up with is a group of piss drunk fucktards blowing off digits in plain view of everyone. I'm not even joking.

With each successive night, there are more fireworks and more assholes and more missing fingers. By the actual fourth of July, an estimate 2/3 of male Fishtown residents are beating their children and swilling their beer with bandaged hands.

So far we've been lucky. Our home hasn't been damaged in a firecracker fight. Craig's car hasn't been hit with any flying flesh or debris. I half expect to leave my house one morning to find a severed hand lying on my doorstep.

Yep, let freedom ring.

Oh, and that reminds me. I made a special holiday skin that will be up tomorrow sometime. You know, for the impending holiday and all.

---

I'm not a cranky old bitch, but I play one in my neighborhood. OK, not really, but sometimes I feel that way.

Tonight when I got home from work I was sitting around watching Buffy on FX when a gaggle of 14 year old girls decided to perch on my stoop. I really don't care if they find my stoop inviting, but if you're going sit there don't fucking bother me. I don't really care to hear about what boy you think is hot, or who is giving whom a blow job. Most importantly, don't you dare fucking smoke while you're sitting on my stoop -- because you know you're going to leave the butts.

And that just pisses me off.

So I tried the subtle route. I opened my front window. Perhaps if they knew I was only a few feet away from them they'd get some freakin' sense and move it along. But no.

Maria continued her story about a fight she was having with her boyfriend Tony and her best friend, Sara. Blah blah blah. Smoke wafting through my window. Cell phones going off. High pitched giggling. Teenage girls suck!

But I know teenage girls. When confronted by an adult, they will scatter. Boys will stay put until you ask them to move it along, but girls...maybe they get frightened by the wrinkles.

I filled up a cup with water, and unlocked my door. I opened the door and all of them jumped up with a hurried, "Oh sorry" and scurried off down the street. I continued out my door and watered my front window box.

It's not like I was opening my door just to open my door. I had to water the flowers and clean up the cigarette butts.

---

Like the knitting geek that I am, I ran out at lunch today to visit the knitting shop over at 21st & Locust. I had to cross Rittenhouse Square on my way.

Rittenhouse Square is always packed on a day like today -- it's filled with mom's and their kids, bike messengers and suits on their lunch hour, the geriatric crowd out for a walk, and every other type of person you can think of. There's always at least one person making a spectacle of him- or her-self.

Today is a was a college-aged girl in a bikini.

I have nothing against people laying out and catching some sun. When you live in the city sometimes you have no choice but to cop a squat in a public place. And if you want to lay out in a very small bathing suit, OK. I'm not going to hate on you for it.

However, let's please show some class.

Bikini girl was sprawled out on a patch of grass striking a pose -- what I'm sure in her mind was an alluring pose. In reality, it looked like she was contorting herself in an effort to catch the attention of a sex-starved lunatic. As alluded to, the bikini was brief and girlie girl was writhing around in the grass all spread eagle.

Maybe she's got the hots for one of the cute little bike messengers. Maybe she thinks one of the corporate suits will fall deeply in lust with her and offer to be her sugar daddy. Who knows what goes through the mind of someone vogue-ing on the grassy knoll.

It was like free quasi-porn during my lunch hour.

---

So I'm sitting couchside earlier tonight and I happen to look out my window and I see a wall of blue. I don't know who was moving or what they were moving, but that's just funny.

While I really am not overly fond of travel by car [I get carsick sometimes], one of my favorite things to do on a long trip is search for silly advertising on big trucks. You know, Cain is Able and crap like that.

It's a shame I didn't get the name of the moving company before the truck pulled away -- I'd like to know what the other 22 moving tips are. Some of their little white man illustrations are probably hilarious. I personally would like to see a little white man trapped underneath a giant sofa.

---

There's a homeless guy who sells newspapers in the middle of the 16th Street, around Cherry Street in the morning. Craig drove me into work today, and I noticed the headline for today's Daily News: Fragile Times in Fishtown.

Fuck. What now.

Surprisingly, it's an article that really gives you a feeling of what my neighborhood is like. You know, there are problems but it's a neighborhood on the edge of being upwardly mobile. And the reporter really got it right: Fishtown natives hate change with a burning passion. I've lived there now for just over three years. None of the neighbors actually spoke to me for the first two years. I just met my next door neighbor last week during the power outage.

It will be interesting to see how things play out when more and more new people are moving into the neighborhood. I mean, you've read my stories about the typical Saturday night in Fishtown. That kind of thing will have to stop before Fishtown really becomes the new cool neighborhood. People want their neighborhood to be a bastion of tranquility while still having cool bars.

There's still a lot of work to be done in this neighborhood before it's inhabitable by outsiders.

---

My neighborhood, Fishtown, has been in the news a lot recently. Earlier this week a pharmacist who works at a drugstore a few blocks away was arrested for selling Oxycontin illegally to local strippers. Last week a 16 year old boy who lives around the corner from me was murdered about six blocks from my house by his friends.

I make fun of Fishtown a lot. I complain about my neighbors and their kids, and make fun of the crazy mullet-heads. When I found out the full extent of what happened to kid who was murdered, I was stunned. All those kids involved live within a block radius of my house. I've seen all three of the kids arrested hanging out.

The kid they murdered is being buried today at the cemetery up the street from my house.

It can happen in any neighborhood. Fishtown isn't special. But I'm always kind of stunned at how vicious people can be. Dangerous people don't have signs on them that say, "Don't trust me -- I'm an animal." Your best friend can turn out to be your worst enemy. I never want to have to be suspicious of everyone I meet, but sometimes I wonder if that's not the best policy.

---

I took a cab home from my event tonight. All I could think of was "Ahhhhh, couch! Maybe a bath! Yay!" And then the cab turned onto my street. People everywhere.

Fucking A, what now?

I get out of the cab and watch the multitude of neighbors gawking at something. And then I notice the smell of fire. Oh, and then I notice that there's a telephone pole on fire. Great. And then I notice there's no electricity. Fuck.

I spent the last two hours huddled around the couple of candles I keep in the house, eating raw hot dogs and swilling beer. Every weird neighbor in the vicinity gathered round. It was a big event. Old, bizarre women were out in their pajamas, offering to feel Craig up should it get too dark to see. The bar was packed -- no electricity and no lights, but dammit, the taps were running.

Finally, fucking PECO arrived and fixed it all. Now I'm tired and cranky.

---

I forgot to buy a new razor today so after I got home from work Craig and I took a walk over to our local CVS pharmacy. On the way to the pharmacy we encountered a house that I think every neighborhood has. It's the house that has way too many lawn ornaments decorating it.

Because I live in the city, there really is no lawn to accessorize. It's really just a 5x5' plot of grass that has been chain-linked in. And the people who live there have planted every imaginable cheesy yard trinket -- the Holy Goalie is surrounded by various gnomes, holiday decorations, fake deer, plastic flamingoes, stone statues, bird baths, etc.

Yeah, it's really awful looking. And we walk past it every time we go to the pharmacy, and we always make fun of it.

Today the owner of the house was standing outside the chain link fence with a friend admiring his handiwork. I'm not kidding you -- they were discussing the finer points of decorating ones house. The friend complimented the house owner on his decorating restraint. He said his house had a lot more stuff, but the simple plot was really classy.

Coincidentally, that house is only half a block from the multi-lingual Beware of Dog house.

---

I just cannot fucking catch a break this weekend. At this very moment there are two people in a car parked in front of my house who are breaking up. I think they must be using megaphones. It's so fucking loud, and woke my ass up out of a deep sleep. Guess what? Can't sleep now!

Frickity frackaty frickety frackety frickity frackaty frickety frackety.

---

We just spent the last hour attempting to ignore a roving band of mullets out on the corner setting off firecrackers. Actually, I spent the last hour trying to ignore them. Craig, because he's like the town watch, spent the last hour with his nose pressed to the window, monitoring the activity and hoping one of them would lose a hand.

Between last night's festivities and today's annoyance, I'm beginning to think this summer is going to be hellacious.

---

Despite the rain and general gloom and raw cold this weekend, Spring has sprung. Wanna know how I can tell? Because a bevy of drunk 15 year olds kept me up last night until 2am.

It's not like they were inside the bar next door -- for being a mullet-friendly local bar, they do a good job of keeping the youngsters outside. But apparently they thought if they hung out outside the bar, some of their cooler peers would happen by and assume they were bar fixtures and, hence, cooler. And they did the typical drunk teen stuff -- fighting in the middle of the street, girls shrieking and falling down in the middle of the street, public puking and urinating, and boys boasting of their sexual prowess.

What I really wanted to do was run out there with a stun gun and some arsenic laced Koolaid for them, but I waited it out. If they come back again tonight or next weekend, of course, I'll turn into the bitchy neighbor and I'll call my pals at the local precinct to come and scatter them. Sure, I'll feel bad about it. I mean, after all -- I was once just like them. But now I'm old and need my beauty sleep. No sleep = cranky Nicole.

I just know I'm going to get an email saying that if I don't like the loud people and the loud bar, I shouldn't have moved next to a bar. To this I ask: have you ever been to Philadelphia? There's a fucking bar on every corner unless you happen to live in the historic district. And then it's every other corner.

No, there's really no way to escape it. Every place I've ever lived in Philadelphia had a bar within 50 feet of my front door.

And you know Craig -- he was up on the third floor with the lights out, nose pressed to the window, monitoring the events of Team Lucid Teen outside. He wants to get a BB gun and become some sort of masked avenger -- sticking up for the normal neighbors by clandestinely shooting idiots with BBs.

It sounds kind of fun, in a mob justice sort of way.

---

Here's my question of the day: why is the water in the Love Park fountain pink? It's not kind of pink, and it's not a pink light shining in the water -- it looks like someone replaced the water supply with Pepto Bismol.

---

One of my temps is in this show. If you're in the Philadelphia area around that time period, be sure to check it out. I'll be there one of those days -- if anyone wants to come with, let me know.

I will admit it's a little disconcerting to see someone I work with in his underwear. It's hard to look at him without thinking of his unit.

When Craig and I first started dating I tried to drag him to all sorts of cultural stuff to see what he'd let me talk him into. I really love the orchestra and opera and experimental dance and theatre. Craig sort of likes the orchestra, but refuses to attend anymore opera or ballet. He'll go to modern dance and theatre shows, but he generally hates them. So I appreciate the fact that he'll go with me. That's nice, don't you think?

Craig, however, absolutely hates modern art. He doesn't get it, doesn't understand why it's art, and doesn't think it's interesting. Opposites attract, I guess.

---

It's time for another edition of Murals of Philadelphia! Woohoo! This is one of my favorite murals in town -- it's located on Broad at Spring Garden.

---

Nothing brightens my day like seeing my azalea bush bloom.

---

My neighborhood is really strange and interesting in a really bizarre way. Fishtown is definitely working class, but there's also a good representation by the welfare for life crowd. There are lots of mullets and people in need of dental work. And, just for kicks, we're really close to the ghetto.

This sign has been on a house on York Street for as long as I've lived here [going on three years now]. I always have to wonder what horrible thing happened at that house to make such a sign necessary. Was there a break-in by a group of thugs who were deaf, spoke Polish, and spoke Spanish? Is the warning really so the owner of the house doesn't get sued when the vicious family pet tears an intruder to shreds? I particularly like the blood dripping off the dog's teeth -- it's a nice touch.

My guess is it's not any of those things. It's probably just a crazy old couple who is just scared at the direction the neighborhood has taken, and thinks the scary dog sign will be effective. I'm expecting a similar sign to go up soon outside the house around the corner whose owners keep a caged monkey in their living room.

There's also a lady down the street who keeps half a dozen emus in her 10x10' patio. I'd like to see that sign -- crazy looking emu painted with a glint in it's eye, blood pouring out of it's mouth. I don't like to go near her place now, let alone with the threat of an emu on a rampage.

Yeah, this place is odd.

---

I know how it is -- you're in a strange city on a visit and it's hot outside and all you want to do is cool down. So you see a beautiful fountain and think how nice it would be to go swimming. You peel off your sweaty socks and shoes, roll up your pants and decide to dip your toes in the deliciously cool water. Maybe you decide to walk around a little in the crystal clear water.

Congratulations: you are now covered in homeless person piss.

It's gorgeous outside today. It's over 80 degrees, just one of those days you want to lounge on a sandy beach somewhere and not think of work. So I met Christy out at Logan Circle lunch, you know, to sun and catch up. All of a sudden a swarm of teenagers who scream "suburbanite!" descend on the fountain and decide it would be a great idea to go wading.

Christy and I watched in horror. "Do you think one of us should tell them they're swimming in urine?" Christy asked.

"Nah," I said. "It's much more fun to watch them take a drink."

---

Nothing pisses me off more than being awakened after a night of perfect sleep at the crack of fucking dawn by wife-beatered construction workers standing around waiting for members of their crew talking at the top of their lungs.

I'm sure they think it's hilarious -- if they can't be asleep at 6am, why should anyone else. One of these days I'm going to invest in a dart blow gun and then they'll be sorry. [Montgomery Burns voice] Verrrrry sorrrrry [/Montgomery Burns voice].

---

Gawddamn, but Genji [1720 Sansom Street] makes some fucking phenomenal sushi. It's gotta be 90 degrees outside today, the weather is beautiful, and it was fine day to make the walk over there. And now I'm sitting here at my desk enjoying a bountiful supply of excellent Genji sushi.

The only way my day could be better is if I didn't have to come back to work. There oughta be a law, I tell ya!

---

If there's one photograph that has ever embodied all that is Philadelphia, it would be this one:

I'm totally serious. If you know anything about Philadelphia, you might know it's a town big on the Union, whether it's the Steelworkers or Sex Workers. They're united, OK? And you'll see vehicles like this one all over the city -- Union license plate on the front, "Handicap" dangly from the rearview of a monsterously huge Cadillac. And, strangely, the cars are all painted beige. Who do they belong to? Big fat guys in their mid- to late-50s who smoke cigars, wear wife beaters and polyster leisure pants who don't have so much as a limp.

It's the natural progression of things, Philly style.

---

You have to be fucking kidding me -- the weather service is calling for a half of foot of motherfucking snow tomorrow. It's not enough snow to net me a day off from work, and [besides which] it's April...there should be no snow. I'm not digging it.

I guess I should be thrilled that I was able to get a good run in today with Tracey. My ass sure as hell isn't running in the snow tomorrow. What happened to Spring? It was 70 degrees only a week ago and now it's like the frozen freakin' tundra.

The only good thing is that I get to wear my fabulous winter coat a last time before packing up the winter clothes.

---

Maybe it comes from years of having to deal with tourists, or maybe it's just that I'm an impatient person by nature, but please just do me this one favor when you come to Philadelphia: don't act like a jackass.

Now, true, acting like a jackass covers a wide array of behavior. So here are some things to keep in mind when you and your buddies visit the City of Brotherly Love:

• Do not walk down the street with a map in one hand and a fist full of babies in the other. It's one or the other -- map or kids. You can't pay attention to both at the same time. If you try you will either a] walk smack into a local, who won't be charmed by your "aw shucks" attitude, or b] your kids will be loud and obnoxious and may attempt to play in traffic. So pay attention!
• Do not visit the Reading Terminal Market. The nice Amish folks who sell bread, and eggs, and shoo fly pies are not there so you can park your fat ass in the middle of an aisle and exclaim loudly, "Look Merle -- real, honest to goodness Amish people!" and block traffic from getting past you. Amish people are well aware that they're Amish -- they don't need you to clue them in. Plus, I'm there to do my grocery shopping, not try to find a way around you as you amble slowly with that slack-jawed look on your face. Get the fuck out of the way. Move with traffic. And pay attention to what the hell you're doing!
• If you see me engrossed in a book eating my lunch outside, do not under any circumstances ask me where the fucking Liberty Bell is. I have an hour for lunch and you're taking up my valuable time. Philadelphia is easy to find your way around in -- use your map and stop fucking bothering me. Next time, I'll send your stupid ass in the wrong direction.
• This is not Podunk, Kansas -- we have more than one traffic light and even more than one Walmart. As such, don't act like you can cross the street when traffic is coming and people will stop because they know you and think you're swell. They will run your ass over, so quit telling anyone who will listen about those "crazy city drivers." Just shut up!
• Just like those "crazy city drivers" don't have the courtesy to stop when you're flouncing in the middle of four lanes of traffic, pedestrians will hip check you right out of the way if you dare to come to an abrupt standstill in the middle of a crowded sidewalk. I'm thrilled that you've never seen a building higher than four floors, but get the fuck out of the way.

Yep, it's easy to tell that it's Springtime.

---

I have mentioned before that Craig is the neighborhood watch. No, he's not part of the neighborhood watch -- he is the neighborhood watch. My husband is the nosiest busybody there ever was.

This morning I'm sitting on the couch eating my Triple Berry Cheerios when he says, "Nicole, you know the guy who lives above the bar?" I look at him. "Well, I think there's a pigeon flying around his apartment!"

I give a disinterested, "Oh yeah?" and go back to eating.

I think he continued on, telling me why he thought there was a pigeon, but I tuned out. I just don't care. Ten minutes later Craig noticed I wasn't listening anymore and walked away in a huff.

Since that time Craig has been either outside or on the second floor of our house, angling for a better view into this guy's apartment.

If you could see me now, I'm rolling my eyes. Alot.

When we were leaving to get groceries earlier, Craig turned to me and said, "Look, you can see the pigeon!" I gave a glance, and didn't see a damn thing. "Do you think I should leave a note on his door. I mean, I'd a have a heart attack if I walked into the house and there was a pigeon flying around."

I muttered something and walked away.

When we got back I came upstairs and posted my last entry. He calls up to me, "Hon, guess what?" "What?" "I was just checking out the apartment -- there's more than one pigeon! There must be four of them in there!" "Yeah, that's great, baby. Thanks for the update."

Just now I looked out on the back patio. Craig broke out his binoculars and is exercising his right to peep in the neighbors window. I fully expect the police to arrive at any moment to haul his nosy ass to prison.

---

Having written my entry this morning and gotten all of my bad feelings out, I felt somewhat lighter and less stressed. So I did what anyone would do who just wanted to see something beautiful: I visited the Philadelphia Museum of Art for the Edgar Degas exhibit. I kind of feel like that kids book, what is it? Something about all the things I saw on Mulberry Street? Except it was the Benjamin Franklin Parkway...but I did see a bunch of stuff.

The most obvious thing is the Degas exhibit, which was wonderful. When we were in Paris a few weeks ago we saw the original wax model of one of the most famous Degas sculptures at the Musee d'Orsay. Today I saw a cast replica, and I was secretly thrilled to know that I had seen the original so recently. One of the museum sponsors donated headsets, so everyone who went through the exhibit got their own headset and could take an audio tour. I usually don't rent them when I go through museums because I'm a cheap bastard, so it was an interesting component of the exhibit. What I noticed, though, is when you have a headset on you don't really experience the show as a whole -- it's more internal and anti-social. Instead of enjoying a painting as part of a group, listening to what others around you have to say about it, you end up with only your impression and what the audio tape tells you about it. It's just a bunch of people roaming around some rooms with headsets on.

It was a little chilly today, but it was sunny. Craig and I sat on the steps of the art museum before we went in and just sort of enjoyed not being couped up in the house. I know that the Inline Skate Patrol leads skates from the steps [you know, the Rocky steps] every Wednesday but apparently the lead Patrollers hang out there all the time. So there were about a dozen of them in front of the fountain skating around and dancing on their skates.

It was kind of interesting for about five minutes. And then it just struck me as kind of sad. Here was this group of people hoping to get some attention from the museum goers, doing choreographed little dances on their skates, and totally thinking they were cool for doing it. And worse yet, I was watching them. Creepy!

I saw a couple dozen fashion victims, one of which was wearing her sneakers so the laces laced up her calves. I saw punk rockers and haus fraus and old money chicks. I saw a drunk guy singing/humming the Rocky theme while running the stairs at the art museum.

It's been a busy day.

---

So I leave the optometrist office and I'm walking down 17th Street. I can't see very well since I just had my eyes dialated and it's taking all of my concentration not to fall down. I'm make it as far as Chestnut Street when I notice that there are several helicopters hovering over the vicinity of my building.

Motherfucker. What now?

I carefully make my way toward the building, hoping that when I get back the building is still there. No one around me seems very concerned so I relax a little. Traffic is moving, and that's always a good sign.

I get to my street, half expecting armeggedon, only to find the street eerily deserted with the exception of just about five dozen police cars, about half of which have their lights on.

I stand there on the corner, completely befuddled. I picked the wrong fucking day for a pupil dialation.

I reach the door of my building, and out walks this lucky bastard whose last day is today. "Rob," I say. "What the fuck is going on?"

"Patchouli stink motherfuckers," he spits out.

Apparently we've both been watching High Fidelity.

"There's an anti-war rally," he explained.

I look around at the empty street. "Really? Where are they?" I asked.

"I don't know. There was a group of about 20 fucking art school students skipping school who came through here about 10 minutes ago. I think they ended up at Love Park."

"So, what? Does the police force have a new policy -- one cop per protestor or something?" I mused. "The whole fucking battalion is out for 20 kids?"

---

If I see one more old white guy with knobby knees in a kilt, I might have to claw out my eyes with a rusty jagged spoon. Some people just should not be alllowed to wear a kilt. There should be a law.

Today was the St. Patrick's Day Parade here in Philadelphia. While it does not compare to the Mummers Parade for drunk morons, there are still plenty of pretend Irish roaming the streets of my neighborhood with their booze on. I strongly suspect there will be a bar brawl that will spill out into the street later on. I promise to take lots of photos if there is.

The only thing I'm really fond of St. Patrick's Day for are the bagpipes. They might sound like a dying cat, but I just adore them. And if you can play the pipes and look good in a kilt...well, let's just say I can't always be held accountable for my impulses.

Irish dancing, on the other hand -- I don't understand the lure of Riverdance. Michael Flatley is no Henry Rollins.

Feh.

---

I don't know who died and made me the fashion police, but that's what I am: the fashionista. If you're ever in Philadelphia wearing an outfit that should be buried, or white after Labor Day, or have VPL and see a redhead checking you out, giving you the stinkeye, it's probably me.

As much as I am craving some good warm weather, one thing I absolutely hate about Spring and Summer are the fashions. And I'm not talking about cute little strappy dresses and sweet sandals and stuff like that. I'm talking about spandex [on anyone other than a jogger] and black socks with sandals and ghostly chicken legs [my own included]. People go insane when it gets warm and wear things that make me gasp. Or want to claw my eyes out with a jagged rusty spoon.

As many of you might remember, Philadelphia is one of the fattest cities in the U.S.. So combine some of the countries fattest people with some of the worst fashion mistakes and you get some of the most bizarre people watching imaginable.

Now, don't get me wrong -- I have nothing against people who are overweight, even people who are morbidly overweight. But if you are 4'11", weigh 550 pounds, and have hygienic issues, I don't want to see you in spandex, shorts, or sleeveless shirts. It doesn't look good. It's not becoming. It's not even mildly attractive.

I tend not wear shorts very often in the summer. I'm only thinking of others -- I'm so white that when that much of my skin shows I could cause planes to go down with the reflection of my legs. If I manage to get a tan I will relent. Is it so much to expect other people to think of me when choosing their outfit for the day, as well?

One of my least favorite looks is a family favorite in my neighborhood. It's the wife beater tank top [usually sweat stained and threadbare], combined with either the huge shorts falling off the ass and a pair of sneakers or bermuda shorts pulled up to just under the armpits and brown socks and black dress shoes.

Something else I hate to see on people is nylon running shorts. Don't fool yourself, people -- if you're not at the gym or taking a jog around the neighborhood, you do not belong in them. And men are particularly offensive in them -- air out your undercarriage in the privacy of your home, I don't want to know whether or not you are circumcized. Take your crusty parts and conceal them.

I could go on -- my neighborhood [and, indeed, all of Philadelphia] is overrun with people who offend my gentle fashion sense. But I won't, because I need to eat my lunch. Without throwing up.

---

For some reason I find it endlessly fascinating when a stranger does something completely unexpected.

Craig and I walked down to the shopping center this afternoon to pick up my coat from the dry cleaner [I'm happy to say that all the wine from my Bordeaux crisis came right out. Those dry cleaners are amazing] and make a quick grocery store trip. We're in line at the grocery store and the check out person is an older woman with a very severe, lined face and super short hair and one of those evil glares that could turn things into stone. In short, she looked like a mean old lady who was going to grunt at us.

When it was our turn to check out she didn't disappoint. She stared at us and grunted. But then out of the blue she starts singing "Help me Rhonda" along with the muzak at the top of her lungs! My jaw dropped, and Craig and I just gawked at her. She continued to sing and bag our groceries, handed Craig his receipt, and we were on our way.

And now that stupid song is stuck in my head.

---

I like to think that I'm a tough girl who can take care of herself. But just a few minutes ago I was up here on the third floor of my house logging on to my computer when it sounded like someone busted in the front door. I thought for a second maybe Craig came home early or maybe Sassy knocked something over heavy.

So I stealthily crept down the second floor and gave a quick look around -- no one there. I looked around for a weapon. I grabbed the big old black Maglite flashlight that Craig keeps on the third story stairs and proceeded to yell out, "Hello?"

What the fuck? Like if someone actually broke into my house he [or she] would give a cheery wave and a "Hey there, nice lady!" I sort of mentally smacked myself in the head [and it's a good thing I didn't actually do it since I had a heavy flashlight in my hand] and gingerly took the stairs to the first floor, ready for action.

I thought about doing one of those action movie rolls on the landing, but figured I'd probably fall down the stairs and be at the mercy of whoever had broken in.

So I tiptoed down the stairs and slunk around, only to discover my front door intact and locked up tight. I looked out my window -- a trash truck was in front of my house and the beer delivery guy was tossing kegs of beer into the bar next door. So that explains the noise.

I'm such a moron.

---

An ominous letter with no return address arrived in my mail today. The stationery was grayish purple. I used to work for a law firm doing immigration work -- the stationery was that same color, so I sort of got a little nervous. Mail from a lawyer is never a good sign.

The letter was, luckily, not from a lawyer -- it was from my landlord. Still, letters from landlords are usually never good news either: my rent is being raised. Fuck.

I should not complain. I live in a three story expanded trinity townhome with a basement and patio and all imaginable amenities. When I moved in three years ago my rent was $495/mo. Last year my landlord raised our rent to $525, and now the rent is going up to $550. Even at $550/mo. my rent is super dirt cheap. But the fact remains that I hate it when my rent is raised.

Craig and I have been considering a move. I'm sick to death of the weather, both winter and summer. This winter we've had way too much snow and in the summer Philadelphia turns into a smelly cesspool of pit stank and tropical humidity. Maybe that's exaggerating just a bit, but I'm ready for something a little more moderate and consistent. I was thinking San Diego. Who knows when this will happen, or even if it will happen. I'm just bitter about all this crappy ass weather we've been having.

And now my rent is being raised. I'm just going to stop complaining about the rent, because it's still really cheap. And hey, it's always free entertainment, what with the constant bar brawls and the occasional crazy neighbor.

---

Last night I was watching the 11 o'clock news and heard something so potentially wonderful and beautiful that I almost kissed the television screen. With tongue.

Today there will be a bill introduced to City Council that, if approved, would declare Philadelphia a "Civil LIberties Zone." What that means is that police officers and other law officials would be exempt from enforcing the current administration's bogus and illegal Patriot Act.

I don't really know the details -- I can't find any documentation on it. Philadelphia is a pretty liberal area [as most large cities are], so I don't know that I would be surprised if something like this passed. Are other cities introducing bills like this?

---

When things get snowy in Philadelphia, things get ugly. I'm not just talking about the yellow snow. By the way, here's a tip: don't eat that.

No, what I'm talking about are the fistfights and outright gun battles that erupt over parking spaces.

It happened last year in South Philly, I believe. One neighbor had spent time digging his car out of some snow, put out chairs to save his space that he had so lovingly toiled over, and came home to find his neighbor had moved his chairs and parked there. So after telling the guy to move and likely a lot of name calling and heated debate, the guy shot his neighbor who parked in his spot.

Yes, I'm totally serious.

Now the local news stations are running these little stories about how putting stuff out to save your parking space is illegal. And it is, completely. But yet, when it snows just over two feet and it takes you hours to dig your car out I can kind of understand the compulsion to do so.

Of course, I don't own a gun and I doubt I'd get that worked up over it if someone parked in the spot I dug out.

The snow makes people crazy around here. Or it could be the cheesesteaks.

---

I know this will come as no surprise: it's snowing again.

Like a smacked ass, the cabin fever got the best of me and I got all bundled and ventured out for a trip to the grocery store. Under normal circumstances, when it snows here in the mullet-hood hardly anyone shovels their sidewalks. True, by law they have 24 hours from the time the snow stops to shovel, but most of them ignore that law and it's never enforced anyway.

After all, when was the last time you heard of someone being fined for not shovelling their walk?

Maybe it's the sheer volume of snow. Maybe the idea of being trapped without a pathway to the bar brought out the law abiding citizen in my neighbors. Whatever the reason, walking wasn't too bad. I only fell into six foot snowdrifts a couple of times.

Something strange I saw on my trek through the frozen tundra was some strange woman pouring regular table salt on her walk. Does that work? I was under the impression that the rock salt one purchases for use with snow and ice is chemically treated to be effective.

Of course, I was more fascinated by the woman. I have always wanted to know who lives in this one house and so to see an actual person associated with the house was a thrill. The house in question has a hand painted sign posted on the porch fence that has a big black dog with huge pointy teeth that have blood dripping off them and "Beware of Dog" in English, Spanish, and Polish. Freaky. I wanted to whip out my camera and take a photo of the woman with the salt against the backdrop of the sign, but was afraid she'd let loose the black dog with the bloody pointy teeth.

Better safe then dog food.

---

When I first moved to Philadelphia in 1990, one of my favorite things to do was ride the regional rail trains in and out of 30th Street Station. It's not that I have a train fetish or anything. It's that the best graffiti art was in the tunnels into and out of the station, and it's hard to see them without being on the train.

Since then there's been a real boost in city murals [legal murals], and now Philadelphia has the largest number of murals in the U.S. And they're gorgeous. The photo above [taken with my brand spankin' new digital camera!] is a mural at 13th & Locust. It's painted on the wall of an apartment building [to get a bigger view, click the photo].

Most of the murals in town are fine art murals. To be honest, I'd love to see a few murals go up that are done by graffiti artists. I'm not talking about tags or stupid shit like that -- some of the most beautiful graffiti murals are so much more than that.

I love to be surrounded by art. A lot of people hate big cities because they're dirty or full of crime or full of traffic. Some people hate Philadelphia for a myriad of reasons. But I love living here, and some of that reason is the beautiful art everywhere you look.

---

There is a pay phone on the corner of 17th & Chestnut. I walk past it almost every day when I meander the streets during my lunch hour. 9 times out of 10 the same guy is on the phone.

I'm pretty sure the phone guy is completely insane and likely homeless. He's probably in his mid-40s, a scruffy white guy with a long straggly beard. Here's the clue that he's crazy: he wears a tinfoil hat and wraps tinfoil around his shoes. Oh, and he's constantly holding the phone out a foot in front of his face and screaming at the receiver.

Today this was the conversation as I walked by Mr. Crazy Tinfoil Hat Man and the phone:

You have to shift my stock options away from the bumblebee infested corn! What the fuck to you think I do all day? I'm an important man! My whole portfolio is going down the cornholio! They're watching me, to make sure I play the stocks right, but you're fucking it up!

This is not the first time I've heard this guy go insane about his stocks. I've been thinking that maybe I should do a study on him. Every day during my lunch hour maybe I should just record him doing his thing and take a picture of him. Of course, I'd have to be clandestine about it -- crazed lunatics tend to get a bit verklempt if they think you're spying on them.

But what I really wonder is if he's really talking to someone. What would happen if I hip checked him away from the phone and grabbed the receiver? Would his broker be on the end of the line? Is the crazy coot really an extremely wealth crazy coot? Is he one of those eccentric millionaires who likes to make the straights nervous?

---

I haven't seen the pigeon lady recently so I thought maybe my evil eye/death curse had worked and maybe she was counting birds in an insane asylum.

Guess what?

I just ran out to the Subway next door to get a 6" Veggie Delight, and ran smack into the asshat herself, spreading handfuls of rat and roach sustenance bread cubes into the bushes. Since I haven't seen her lately I let my guard down and stopped carrying a copy of the Streets Department Sanitation Violation Report around with me to present to her. Bastard!

Maybe the cold weather makes me testy. Maybe I've had it with the fucking pigeons and rats in the city. I turned around and called, "You. You feeding the pigeons. Are you aware that feeding the pigeons on city streets is illegal?"

The bitch threw her bag of bread cubes at me and ran off down the street without saying a word.

I was too stunned to do anything other than give a cackle, brush the crumbs off myself, and continue on my way. I'm sure she'll be back feeding the damn wildlife again tomorrow.

Maybe I ought to start carrying around my own sack of stuff to throw at her...like rat poison. Maybe it would be a better plan to just follow her around and spread the rat poison behind her as she lays down a cover of bread cubes.

Of course, then I'd have to worry about being pelted with dead pigeons and rats.

---

Earlier today I needed to make a post office run. So Craig joined me for little jaunt to my local office.

Today is trash day in Fishtown. You know how it is -- you get pissed off if you get caught driving behind a trash truck on narrow city streets because there's no way to pass them usually, and it completely slows down your day.

Right. So Craig and I are walking along, returning from our P.O. visit and there's a trash truck in the street and there are about five cars behind the truck, all beeping their horns and acting like assholes. Finally, the trash truck driver sees a spot by the side of the road where he can pull over and let the other cars pass by. The guy on the back of the trash truck starts waving people by, when for no reason whatsoever the guy driving the last car opens his car door, stands on his car and yells, "Yo, fuck you nigger!" to the guy on the back of the trash truck. And then he got back in his car and drove away.

I couldn't move. My feet were rooted to the sidewalk. I just stood there staring at this guy. Have you ever been in a situation where everything just gets quiet, and the blood starts pounding in your ears, and you're sure your head might explode? I wanted to run after the guy, stop his car, and just pound him until he bled profusely. But I could not move. I was embarrassed to be white, and embarrassed that I live with people who are so ignorant.

I forget sometimes that people like that exist. My world is sanitized for my comfort -- I surround myself with people who don't pay attention to skin color. Brooke and I might joke about people not like her because she's black or people not liking me because I'm white, but we all make fun of people like that. And I just forget that people have such malice in them.

A few nights ago I was watching Conan O'Brien and he had Charles Barkley on. Conan mentioned the stupidity that came out of Trent Lott about Strom Thurmond, and Barkley said something like, "Well, it doesn't surprise me. That's the way people in the South think. I'm more comfortable in the Northeast." And I buy into that type of generalised thinking -- Southerners and mid-Westerners are more concerned with issues of race than in the Northeast or in the Southwest. I forget that there are just as many racist assholes living here, like the guy in the car and like my grandfather.

What bothered me the most is that the guy wasn't very old. He was probably my age. I tend to be a little more forgiving toward old people because saying stupid shit like that was OK when they were growing up. It's not a license to continue thinking that way, but I can at least understand where it comes from. But for a 30 year old guy to think it's OK to use that word and think those things is completely unacceptable to me. How can anyone grow up in the 1970's and 1980's and still have a racist bone in their body? I don't understand.

And it pisses me off. And freaks me out. I'm rapidly losing hope in the future.

---

I took the day off from work today. This must come as a total shock to those of you who know how much I love and adore my job [note the biting sarcasm]. It was a fairly peaceful day, thanks to the fact that I had the house to myself.

It became clear on Christmas Day that I wouldn't have the great pleasure of seeing my father for the holidays. See, sometimes good things really do happen if you wish for it hard enough. He called me around 5pm on Christmas Day for his usual shot of attempted guilt at not embracing him for his feeble attempts to be fatherly. As usual, it was not hard to rebuff his weak harrassment. He threw in this weird lecture on It's a Wonderful Life. He made it a point to tell me that he cries at the ending every time he sees the movie, it's his favorite movie, I should really go watch the movie now, blah blah blah. It was ten minutes of stupidity regarding It's a Wonderful Life.

Since my father has never once just had a conversation with me that didn't involve him trying to guilt me into accepting him as The Best Father Ever, I'm assuming he was trying to tell me something.

But I digress. The deal is that he wouldn't be making his annual trip to my house to collect my gift and make me uncomfortable. He sounded hurt when I said I was just going to pop his gift in the mail. Maybe he thought I'd try hard to make sure I saw him. Or maybe he was just stoned. Who can know?

My point is that today I left the house today to drop his gift off at the post office. On the way to the post office I walk through a little community grass plot called Palmer Park [and here's an extra tidbit -- they shot part of the last episode of The Hack at that park] and noticed at least half a dozen pairs of underwear lying on the ground or snagged in the bushes.

What?

What's funny is that they weren't cotton grannie panties or other kind of undies that one wouldn't mind shedding in the interest of a quick sexual interlude. They were nice looking silky, frilly undies. Of course, I didn't pick them up and sniff them or anything so it could have been crappy underwear that just looked nice from afar. But who is having that much sex in the park? It's not like it's secluded or has lots of trees to hide behind or anything. There's a major road on one side of the park, a hospital on the other side of the park, and a row of homes on the other two sides of the park.

Perhaps there is a prostitution ring that operates underneath the park benches? The old guys who are always sitting on the benches are really pimps. Maybe soon on the news you'll see Palmer Park getting busted as the premiere Philly ho spot.

Maybe I should start recruiting my own stable of chicks, and then we could start a turf war. It could be just like West Side Story....

When yer a Fishtowner yer a Fishtowner to the end, from your first gappy grin to your last malt liquor....

---

I've said it once, and I'll say it again: I fucking hate the Mummers with a fiery passion that has heretobefore never been known.

Really.

I thought I was safe -- it was raining like crazy yesterday and the outdoor portion of the parade was postponed until Saturday [when I will safely be away from the city and firmly entrenched in the lore of cow tipping in my hometown]. No parade=no filty stinking drunk drag queens with banjos. Right? Right?

It's midnight last night. I have just turned off the PC, and I'm joining my husband in bed. I have just sunk my tired head into the cool smoothness of my downy pillow when the unmistakable sound of a goddamn string band echoes through the quiet streets of Fishtown.

I put the pillow over my head, hoping to suck the breath out of my body before the xylophones come any closer. The rage built up in me as the roving band of miscreants with instruments crept ever closer to my house. I thought of ways I could horrible maim them without getting caught. I searched through my memory for a hidden stash of boiling oil I might have just sitting around in my house.

As I knew they would, those bastards stopped in front of my house. You have never known white cold fury until you are rudely kept from sweet, sweet slumber by a bunch of drunk schmucks with saxophones, banjos, xylophones, and drums parked outside your house at midnight. For thirty minutes. Thirty long minutes of a Mummer serenade.

I glowered at them. I swore at them. I ranted and raved. When no one took any notice, I placed a super secret curse upon them that will damn their descendants for eons to come.

This morning I am a haggard old woman, kept from my beauty sleep, compounded by what the curse took out of me. Only the memory of yesterday's victory over those assholes at SEPTA is keeping me from impaling myself on a knitting needle.

Woe is me.

---

Despite my temporary adoration of snow yesterday, I really do hate snow. Here I am at work, early [as usual], hating the snow even more than usual.

Now, I don't drive. I have a license and do know how to drive. I just hate it. So I don't drive. And living here in Philly, I really don't have to. Today I am unusually happy about the fact that I don't own a car and don't drive. Digging out a car and attempting to drive on Fishtown streets that never get plowed would just be too much for me.

As it is, walking was hazardous. I'm sure it's like this in every town, but in Philadelphia we are responsible for shoveling our sidewalks [unless you live in an apartment, in which case your landlord is responsible]. Craig and I shovel the walk from the curb to the end of our house. The entire walk, not just a tiny little narrow walkway. You know, because it's common courtesy. Most of our neighbors either don't shovel at all or they shovel a path from their front door to their car. Bastards.

Traversing the three blocks from my house to the bus stop is certainly an exercise in survival on days like today. Aside from the unplowed roads and the unshoveled sidewalks, people in my neighborhood are drunk 24-7 and like to drive while intoxicated. I have always been glad that I developed a Frogger fixation early on in life, otherwise I might not have the necessary skills to cross the street around here.

Craig and I made a practice run last night. We walked about six blocks to hit Ho Sai Gai [home of the best steamed dumplings on the face of the planet, right Kathy?] in the snow, using guerilla tactics to avoid being pelted by snowballs or run over by drunken Fishtowners. We finally arrived at Ho Sai Gai after several tactical maneuvers, and the staff practically carried us to a table on their shoulders -- we were their first and only customer of the day.

Normally I would not venture out in the snow if I didn't have to, but the siren call of steamed dumplings was just too strong. Could. Not. Resist.

True Philadelphians lack intestinal fortitude when it comes to snow. Those of us who grew up with snow on the ground from November to February or March realize that it's a pain in the ass, but it isn't the End of The World. At the mere threat of even so much as a flake of snow, Philadelphians flock en masse to grocery stores, gas stations, and Home Depot and buy up everything in preparation for nuclear winter. Schools are closed. And then when the world doesn't end, they drive like assholes.

In my hometown there has to be at least three inches of snow on the ground before anyone even considers a delay. To cancel school for the day there better be a full on snow emergency of two feet of snow. Because, you know, they'd rather us die on the way to school then stay home and tip cows, fornicate, and create all sorts of other madness.

Aw, memories.

---

The White House needs to fire their decorator or idea man or whoever decides the theme of the White House Christmas tree. If it's the First Couple, you know I'm very behind firing them for more important things -- but choosing to decorate the tree in the "History of Pets" makes me seriously wonder for their sanity.

In all honesty, the theme is native U.S. birds, which doesn't quite seem as ludicrous as the "history of pets" but in comparison to past tree themes -- A Winter Wonderland, Mother Goose Christmas, and Nutcracker Suite -- the native birds theme seems a little unseasonal and kind of silly.

But hey, who am I to complain about the way the White House decorates? I'm sure the Shrub would hate my cheesy collection of Marilyn Monroe ornaments.

Decorating for holidays is such a subjective thing. I decorate for two holidays only -- Halloween and Christmas. I usually don't really go overboard. For Halloween this year we hung jointed resin skeletons in the five windows in the front of our house, and left it at that. For Christmas we usually put swags and bows in the front windows, have a Christmas tree and hang a little mistletoe.

Being a minimalist doesn't run in the family. My mother decorates for every imaginable holiday -- she loves taping cardboard ornaments to the windows and the mirrors in the house and putting out little holiday-related chotchkies. In my neighborhood it isn't overly popular to go crazy with the decorating, but there are some people who do. There is a neighbor down the street who has lined the front of his house with lights that he changes the color of to reflect the holiday. For Christmas he wires a full on flying Santa Claus with sleigh and all the reindeer to the front of his house. There's a woman around the corner who has lined the bottoms of her windows with cotton balls [you know, to simulate snow] and has positioned her creepy collection of dolls on a sled. Behind them she has hung these weird silver streamers.

Probably the neighborhood in Philadelphia most prone to decorating is South Philly. Those people decorate if they pass a kidney stone. Weddings and christenings and graduations and engagements all deserved swags of tulle wrapped around every available surface, along with huge banners. Other holidays involve full on plastic light up creche scenes that are chained to the house so no one can make off with the Sweet Baby Jeebus. Their cars are decorated. Their stoops are decorated. They probably have holiday toilet paper.

That right, in South Philly you can wipe your ass on the face of Santa. Step right up.

---

It was with a heavy heart that I awoke this morning. It's officially the holiday season. In Philadelphia this means only thing -- the Mummers.

If you haven't seen the Mummers Parade on New Years Day live in Philadelphia you just haven't seen anything. It is a spectacle that can't be explained or believed. New Years Day in Philadelphia is always a little like navigating the frozen tundra -- it's bitterly cold and windy and frostbite is only a moment away.

OK, so what's a Mummer? Generally a Mummer is a man [although there are women Mummers, it's just not as a common], usually a blue collar type, who dresses up in sequined outfits but isn't a drag queen, and maybe plays a banjo. A Mummer dances, sometimes prances, and almost always struts. And it's tradition to do all of this while piss drunk on camera.

I'm told the alcohol is necessary to ward off the cold.

The first time I saw a live Mummers Parade was my freshman year of college. I ventured out into the sub-Arctic temperatures with Christy and a few other friends. Immediately upon arrival at City Hall we were swarmed by drunken Mummers from the Comics division. In other words, we were attacked by Wenches. The men in the Comics division dress in drag. After trying to bum smooches from us, they continued on their way. This happened at least half a dozen more times, and twice a Wench almost puked on my shoes. Happy New Year!

The rest of the parade isn't nearly as volatile, but still vaguely freaky. And the freakiness doesn't lessen with each passing year.

I used to live in South Philly, down near Two Street. Many of the Mummers organizations have clubhouses on Two Street. Right about this time is when they'd all start practicing in earnest underneath I-95. Watching them practice is actually kind of cool. But I got all Mummered out the last year I lived in South Philly.

Picture it: it's New Years Eve. I'm drunk as hell. Craig and I arrive back at my apartment after a long night and all we want to do is fall deep asleep so we can have the energy to nurse our hangovers the next morning. All of a sudden "I'm Looking Over a Four Leaf Clover" comes blasting in my window.

Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?

I look outside and a stupid fucking Mummer has parked one of their huge music vans with the loudspeakers on top outside of my building and decide that all of Two Street and its vicinity need to get into the Mummer spirit.

Have you ever heard that sleep deprivation and dream deprivation can make you insane? Or that being bombarded with horrible music for long periods of time as a method of torture is very effective? Well, yes, to all of it. By the time morning rolled around and the asshole moved his truck off to parade I was ready to don camo fatigues and go on a mission to pick off any Mummer I might happen to see. Just call me G.I. Nicole.

After that I sort of lost any sort of desire to see a Mummers Parade live. Watching it on TV sucks because it's mostly pretty boring. I will admit to being a sucker for the Fancy Brigade division. It's sort of like musical theatre on crack.

Luckily the Mummers don't have a stronghold in Fishtown. The minute I see a Wench walking down the street here on New Year's Day I'm moving out.

Bah humbug!

---

Bob the Corgi was recently planning a trip to Philadelphia with a bevy of medical types, and I recommended a trip to The Mütter Museum. Apparently she was completely disturbed by her visit to The Mütter , and now thinks I'm completely insane because I told her how much I love the museum.

I really do love The Mütter Museum -- where else can see a plaster cast of Cheng and Eng, a giant human colon, and almost an entire room devoted to preserved samples of medical maladies and deformations? I even have the calendar for The Mütter hanging in my kitchen. I make a visit at least once every year. The place is completely gross and I adore it.

Maybe that does make me a little strange. I've always been a big fan of the gross and completely disgusting. I'm endlessly fascinated by bloody wounds and miscellaneous gore. Horror movies are my not-so-secret passion -- the bloodier and cheesier, the better. Sword swallowers and those people who pound nails into their faces can hold my attention for hours. It repulses me to no end, but yet I can't look away. Do I really need to see a chunk of John Wilks Booth's neck in formaldehyde? No, not really, but it's one of the first things I go to see when I'm at The Mütter.

What's funny about all this is that I don't think I could ever be a doctor, nurse, or paramedic because I don't think I could bring myself to touch someone's bleeding body. I get very panicky when Craig practically cuts his finger off with one of our butcher knives.

But show me one of those absolutely horrifying surgery shows on television and I am glued to the set for the whole thing. One I remember most vividly is this little kid having something done where the doctors had to pretty much peel the kids face off. It was grotesque and sickening but I watched the whole thing.

I don't get it.

---

You know, I thought with the eviction of the faux punks my neighborhood would return to normal. However, because I was so preoccupied with the faux punks I forgot that I live right next door to a bar filled with mulletted mouth-breathers.

Last night I was minding my own business, helping Christy dye her hair, when I fight broke out in the front of the bar. But this was no regular fight -- it was a girl fight!

Girls in Fishtown [my neighborhood] are a different breed of girl. I think it's some weird vitmain fortified water thing -- these girls are tough. Even the little teeny tiny size 0 ones would just as soon punch you in the teeth as look at you. They have a horrible Northeast Philly accent that sounds like cats screeching. They have pointy teeth and bent noses and clawlike fingernails. And they dress like two cent hookers.

That said, a girl fight in front of the bar is often like watching two heavyweights up for a title belt -- it's usually bloody and kinda brutal. And in almost all cases the rumble has been lit over a guy. And that always cracks me up because the men who frequent the bar are toothless and dumb.

So Christy and I look out the front window and there are two tiny chicks just beating the hell out of each other, screaming obscenities, surrounded by a ring of their girlfriends who are all casually slapping each other around. I think I saw one girl pull out brass knuckles.

Clothes are being torn, teeth are flying, blood is spurting. But then I get this idea -- clothes are being torn! If clothes get torn enough I could totally get boobie shots and submit them to Robyn for the cause! Classic!

I tore downstairs to find my Pencam when it hits me: the Pencam is sitting on my desk at work. Well that's a fine place for it! Dumbass! So no boobie shots for Statia's trip to Florida. Dammit!

After that, the sparkle sort of went out of the fight for me. Even seeing a girl lose three clumps of hair did nothing to improve my mood. Not even when two cop cars arrived on the scene to break it up lightened my heavy heart.

I was depressed: no Fishtown fighting boobies.

---

Last night was a five police car night.

I'll say this for my faux punk neighbors -- they are good for providing hours of drama and entertainment. Of course, it looks like that time is now drawing to an end. I am both happy and sad, with the majority of my feelings going toward the extremely and gleefully happy that my beauty sleep will no longer be interrupted by faux punk boy's idiotic girlfriend.

Craig and I decided to catch an early show of The Ring last night. We got home around 9pm and as we approach the house there are just about 80 people milling around the street between my house and the house of faux punk. I raised my eyebrows and looked at Craig. Craig got a silly grin on his face.

We parked the car and walked to our house, wondering just what the hell was transpiring that could have drawn such a crowd. There's some old, grizzled, drunk guy in an Eagles jersey laying on the ground yelling obscenities. Faux punk boy Clayton and his bevy of faux punk friends are in a heated argument with what seems like the entire crowd from the bar next to my house. The owner and family of the house of faux punk is barring the entrance of the house, locking the belongings of faux punk boy inside and telling them to beat it.

Right.

Craig, being the nosy old woman that he is, immediately sets out to find out the dirt. Five minutes later five police cars show up and Craig breathlessly flies into the house and tells me the story.

Around 8pm the house of faux punk was in a full swing huge part-ay when some smacked ass kicks out the windows of the third floor, sending broken glass cascading onto the sidewalk below. It also hit the old drunk guy in the Eagles jersey. His bellowing summoned his minions from the bar, who formed an old time Fishtown posse who then kicked the shit out of several friends of faux punk boy. This went on until some of the sober neighbors arrived on the scene to break things up, and also called the owner of the house. Which leads us to the present scene I was witnessing outside my door.

I ask you -- does it really get any weirder than this?

After an additional hour of cops taking statements, taking complaints, arguments with the owner of the house and the faux punks, and this drunk guy in the Eagles jersey falling down drunk in the middle of the street and pissing himself, things quiet down. Until 5am, of course,

5am comes around and Craig and I are awakened to the sounds of faux punk boy and friends of faux punk screaming at each other in front of the house. It seems the only person on the lease [rarely seen] has arrived home after a tough night of work only to learn that his friends and other roomie have screwed him royally.

Now it looks like only a matter of time before the house of faux punk is packed up and left empty again.

Ah, sweet beautiful peaceful sleep awaits me!

---

I almost forgot about this until Statia at Pizza Dreams reminded me -- there was a brief faux punk neighbor-related interlude last night!

Around 2am I was rudely awakened by the drunk girlfriend of faux punk boy [bizarrely, his name is Clayton]. She was pacing back and forth in front of the house screeching at the top of her lungs. Clayton was hanging out the window spitting at her. The episode went a little like this:

Stupid girl: Heellllllooooo? Cllllaaaaaayton? Helllllllooooo? I know you're in there. I'm sorry! I'm not a bad person! Cllllayyyyyton! [repeated about 20 times]
Clayton: Go away! You're a bitch! [Clayton slams window and ignores Stupid Girl]
Stupid girl: Heellllllooooo? Cllllaaaaaayton? Helllllllooooo? I know you're in there. I'm sorry! I'm not a bad person! Cllllayyyyyton! If you don't love me, tell me to fuck off! Clllaaaaaaaaaayyyton, I looooooove you!

This went on for about 20 minutes until I opened up the window and yelled out, "Hey! Clayton fucking hates you. Fuck off! The rest of us hate you too!"

I'm not sure what it is with these faux punk types, but she started to cry and stormed off. These people obviously lack intestinal fortitude. And shame -- I mean, I would have been mortified to let an asshole like me see me cry when I was all punked out.

---

Hey, have I mentioned my sucky ass neighbors recently? You know the ones -- they think they're all punk rock.

I made one of them cry last night.

OK, it was actually this morning. 4am, to be precise.

Since faux punk girl was forced out of the house by her parents last month it has just been faux punk boy and the brother of faux punk boy. I imagined [up until last night] that the two of them sit around the house and just dream up ways to drive people in the neighborhood systematically insane. Sleep-deprivation makes people into lunatics, you know.

I'm living proof of that. Last night at 1am they turned up their stereo as loud as it would go. We had the windows closed and a fan on, but it was still as if the stereo was in the room with us. I laid in bed until 4am and I thought evil thoughts. I wished a meteor would crash into their house and kill them. I fervently hoped the meth lab that is likely set up in their livingroom would blow up. I desired to see a mob of neighborhood kids shove bamboo sticks under their faux punk fingernails while cutting them and pouring salt in the cuts. Fire ants? Bring them on!

What happened next is a blur.

I leapt out of bed in a single bound, marched downstairs, threw on my sneakers, and pounded on their door. I want you to imagine me. This is me this morning. I look pretty normal, if not kind of tired. Last night I was wearing blue plaid flannel pajamas, a pair of running sneakers, and my leather coat. My hair was standing straight up from tossing and turning in bed all night. I was wearing my glasses. I'm a little girl -- 5'2" and fairly petite. And I was ragingly pissed off.

So my faux punk neighbor answers the door. I start off very nice. I introduce myself: "Hello, my name is Nicole. I'm your neighbor from across the street." I shook his hand.

It's then that I completely lost my mind. I started screaming at him:

"You must turn down your music, you stupid motherfucker! I have not slept in at least a month because you fucktards [thank you BeerMary] can't figure out that all of us in the neighborhood have a different sleep schedule than you! Pull your fucking head out of your fucking ass and look around! Everyone in this motherfucking neighborhood wants to fucking stab you and your friends in the guts and use your intestines as fucking Christmas tree garland! While I understand that you just moved out of mommy and daddy's house for the very first time, have some fucking respect, you whitebred, disrespectful, limp dick motherfucker!"

The reason I know I said this is because Craig videotaped the whole thing. He made me watch it this morning. I'm a scary girl.

And faux punk boy thought so too. As soon as I paused to take a breath he started to cry like a little girl. Then he started to apologize. I realized that while I was yelling at him I had been jumping up and down like a fucking lunatic. So I dialed it back a bit, accepted his apology, asked him to please keep the music down, and returned to my house.

Is there such a thing as sleep-deprivation rage? I think I might need help. At least there were no pumpkin carving tools around -- things could have gotten ugly.

Hell hath no fury like a girl denied her sleep. Heh.

---

Wanted: a nice owner for a sweet stray cat abandoned by stupid neighbors.

I know what you're thinking -- it's not the stupid faux punk neighbors from across the street. Surprisingly, the remaining faux punk boy who lives there is relatively nice when sober. But I digress.

My neighbors around the corner apparently adopted a kitten from the local SPCA recently. It's the cutest little black and brown kitten [probably about six months old] with a really sweet disposition. At any rate, Craig and I would see this kitten running around the neighborhood but it has a collar so we picked her up every time we saw her and called the phone number on the tag and delivered her back to the neighbors. The neighbors claim that the cat makes for the door every time someone goes in or out. To date, we have delivered this cat back to the neighbors house at least half a dozen times over the last 10 days. The last time I took her back, they seemed almost sorry to see her returned.

Stupid neighbors.

Last night Craig goes outside and there's the kitten roaming around the streets. This time, no collar. I'm beginning to think the neighbors took her collar off and set her loose into the wilds of my neighborhood. So I'm trying to find a potential home for her in the case that the neighbors really did abandon her.

I would love to keep her but my cat is old and Queen of the Castle. But I won't say more about her because I refuse to blog about my cat [that way leads to madness].

If I can't find a home for her, I will return her to the SPCA. She just so cute, I'm sure she'll get adopted again within hours -- this time hopefully to a more loving family.

So, if you live in the Philadelphia area and you'd like your very own sweet girl kitten, let me know!

---

Yesterday there were a couple hundred wild and crazy Polocks eating weinerschnitzel on the Benjamin Franklin Parkway here in Philadelphia.

No, this is not an offensive ethnic joke -- it was the Pulaski Day Parade.

Philadelphia, like any large city, is completely overrun by festivals and parades during the Summer and Fall, but the strangest thing is the series of ethnic festivals. There are festivals for German-Americans, Irish-Americans, Puerto Rican-Americans, Native Americans, African-Americans, Mexican-Americans, etc., etc., etc. And at every single festival, there exists this strange dynamic -- participants actively reinforce ethnic stereotypes.

At the Irish and German festivals, there is a beer garden. At the Native American festival there are old grizzled tribal looking men in headdresses trading food for beads. And at the Polish festival they clog and eat weinerschnitzel.

I often wonder if the people attending these festivals are really of that particular ethnic background, or if they just think it would be fun to pretend for a day and "do as the Puerto Ricans do" or whatever. I've been to a couple of the festivals throughout the years. The Irish festival was one of the more ridiculous -- the organizers stopped just short of having a leprachaun running around looking for his pot of gold.

This morning I was wondering how the festival organizers pick ethnicities to "honor" with their very own celebration. There is no Scottish-American festival, but there are tons of people in this area with Scottish heritage [including myself]. Granted, the festival would be all about the whiskey garden and haggis kiosk. I think I'd like to see some different festivals -- like the Australian-American festival [home of the "Shrimp on the Barbie" and Fosters beer garden, of course] or the French-American festival [wine garden and escargot stand].

Ethnic festivals can't be this ridiculous in other places. In Russia are there American-Russian festivals that feature hamburgers and bingo games? Can you find an American-Japanese festival in Japan that has a bunch of nutty ex-pats running around doing the electric slide and eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?

---

Was Kelly Osborne wearing a wig last night on the Emmy's?

I have a love-hate relationship with award shows. They're so fucking boring, but I feel compelled to watch in order to snark on the fashions. What is it about being in front of hundreds of paparazzi that make people want to dress as horribly as possible?

To be perfectly honest, I didn't really watch most of the Emmy's last night. I watched Six Feet Under at 8:00 because I missed it Saturday night. And then I studied for my Spanish class, because I'm a good student like that.

Speaking of casa de faux punk, the house was quiet as a mouse last night. It was almost disappointing. I had a dream last night that faux punk boy and his little preteen friends were inside plotting to throw an explosive party this weekend, involving grenades and automatic weapons. Let's hope that my dream doesn't turn out to be prophetic. That's right, I am Prophecy Girl [a shout out to all you Buffy fans].

I have very vivid dreams. Only a handful have ever really come to pass luckily. Most of my dreams are of horrible things; I never have those nice fluffy dreams where I get to do cool things.

The first dream I ever remember having was when I was six years old. It was October and my mom had just put up all the Halloween decorations. She hung one of those weird little plastic ghosts [the ones that look like they're made up of little plastic dots that have been semi melted together. Do you know what I mean?] over my closet. Well, it freaked me out and I had a nightmare that is so vivid the memory of it is clear to this day.

I dreamt that on Halloween everyone buried would rise up out of their graves. It wouldn't be gross or scary though -- they'd look just like they did when they were alive, but they were just really pale. When people died they'd be buried with certain things in a manilla envelope, and on Halloween they would stand on their grave with this manilla envelope in hand. Live people could stroll the graveyard and look through the manilla envelope to see what the dead were buried with. OK, so my Uncle Ed and I went to the graveyard around the corner from my house and we were looking through manilla envelopes. The only rule to all of this is that if you jingled the change that was in the envelope, something very very bad would happen. Gilligan was buried in the cemetary and I wanted to see what he was buried with. So I reached to take his envelope and I dropped it, thereby jingling the change.

That was the point when the dream turned vivid and scary. All the dead people howled and started turning into what you would imagine a dead person would look like [rotting flesh, etc.]. And then they started chasing me. The dream seemed to last forever -- the dead people chased me all over town and finally I fell down and they were about to get me. And then I woke up.

Scariest dream I ever had. And it involved Gilligan. Heh.

---

I thought I was going to be sorely disappointed there for a minute. It looked like Miss Faux Punk's parents were going to let her stay after all, that they were going to just help her clean up and go about her business of annoying the hell out of the neighborhood.

On rare occasions I can be a total bitch. I did something today which can only be construed as pure evil. I feel slightly guilty for doing it, but I feel as if I took a hit to the karma for the overall good of the neighborhood. Took one of the gipper, so to speak.

Faux punk girl's mother was sulking out at their car because faux punk girl was not moving out. So I positioned myself at the front window with my cell phone and called Christy. I then proceeded to tell her the entire story of what transpired last night in my loudest, "I'm a former cheerleader and my voice carries pretty far" voice, including the highlights of the jackass pissing out the third story window and the mad dash to the bathroom for the ritual flushing. I know the woman heard me, and I meant for her to hear every single detail. I also mentioned that the neighborhood had officially declared war, and that this has been a chronic problem.

As soon as I hung up the woman stormed into the house and not less than 15 minutes later faux punk girl was packing up the family car with her possessions. Something tells me that faux punk girl didn't tell the parents the full on story. Tsk tsk...bad faux punk girl, bad!

So that leaves faux punk boy in the house. He and his little posse of preteen friends have been brooding about the house all day, and they threw out a rug. I don't know what that means, but I'd be willing to bet the cops will be back at casa de faux punk later this evening. And I won't be the mean old cranky neighbor who calls the cops.

Yeah, so I feel slightly bad. I feel like the bitchy old neighbor who comes to her door with a baseball bat, yelling "Get off my lawn!" But it's really not about being a nosy asshole. If they would have moved in and had respect for the neighborhood, I and everyone else would have welcomed them into the neighborhood. But don't expect a relatively quiet and family-oriented neighborhood to put up with stupidity. I'm able to throw parties at the house and have a great time with my friends without incurring the wrath of the neighborhood. Dumbasses.

I'll be surprised if the remaining faux punk boy isn't gone within a week. The cops will be there probably every night, and I'm sure one of the neighbors has already alerted the landlord. What cracks me up about all this is that these kids think they're punk rock! For starters, how punk rock can you be if mommy and daddy have to come and lead you away in shame? Some of their friends actually drive a new Ford Taurus station wagon, for chrissakes! Sorry kids, that's not exactly punk rock.

Is it wrong that I'm getting enjoyment out of this?

---

Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction: my neighborhood turned into a Shaft-like, Starsky and Hutch type of thing last night. Sing the soundtrack with me kids: bowm chicka bowm chicka bowm chicka bowm waaaaaaaaaah [think cheesy 1970's cop drama, not porn music].

OK, so I was having sort of a surreal evening to begin with. Christy was over and forcing us to watch the Miss America pageant. I was overwhelmed with joy at the addition of the Jeopardy-esque game show question segment, but I want to be the one writing the questions next year. None of this "Who was the 2001 Time Person of the Year?"...I want to ask them serious questions about foreign policy and shit. But I digress.

Christy and I had gone shopping earlier in the evening. When we left [let's say about 7pm], my new and completely idiotic neighbors across the street were having a major part-ay. All their little faux punk friends were out on the street with beers, being annoying and loud. They were still there when we came back around 9pm.

So Christy leaves around 12:30 am and Craig and I end up going to bed around 1am. The party is still raging on. 10 minutes later, Craig is shaking me to wake up and in hysterical laughter:

"Nicole, Nicole, wake up! Put your glasses on and look outside! It's on! The neighborhood has snapped! Bwahahahahaha!"

When I look outside I see little faux punks on the roof of my neighbor's house. And on the roof of all the houses on that block. And they're scattering like roaches because there's a police helicopter with a searchlight flooding the rooftops. Swarms of police are on the ground, scouring the neighborhood. Faux punks are diving back into the house of faux punk, trying desparately to act nonchalent and cool. The police knock on the door and have a discussion with the morons who live there.

So this goes on for about an hour. Craig, being the nosy neighbor that he is, is running around the house looking for the best vantage point from which to view the entertainment.

The cops come back again. This time they ask if they can come in and inspect the third floor, where the faux punks have been accessing the roof. The cops enter the house and someone flies into the bathroom and starts flushing what I imagine is a shitload of drugs.

I think the faux punks in the house were trying to claim they weren't the faux punks running around the neighborhood roofs, but there are 40 oz. bottles of beer on the roof. Not really a good idea, lying to the cops in this neighborhood. I specifically hear one of the cops say that if they have to come back again this evening everyone in the house gets arrested. Heh.

After the cops left and helicopters went away, the house sort of quieted down. I could hear the sound of faux punks all pissed off that someone had rained on their faux punk parade. Eventually the party spilled outside again around 3am. Lots of underage faux punks with open beers on the sidewalk -- very illegal in Pennsylvania. The music ramps up again. Then one of them opens up the third story window and pisses out of the window onto the street below. Very classy people.

Some people just don't learn. Damn faux punks.

So here comes the paddy wagon at 3:30 am. Faux punks try to scatter into the night, but the cops have blocked off the street from both ends. Oh, poor faux punk in handcuffs. Bye bye faux punks.

So yeah, I can guarantee there's going to be another party tonight. And Starsky and Hutch will be back. I might as well purchase the soundtrack to Kojak so I can play it while all the action is happening.

A friend of mine grew up in this neighborhood and still has relatives here. He seems to think that this will eventually lead to the faux punks being fire bombed out of their house. Apparently it has happened before when idiots move in. This should make for an interesting couple of months before the faux punks are found dead in their livingroom.

Maybe I'll be on Cops.

BWAH! BREAKING NEWS! The police have just arrived back at the house of faux punks! The parents of the girl who lives there are on the scene! They're moving them out! Bwah hahahaha!

Is this the end of faux punks in Fishtown? Stay tuned....

---

One of my fondest wishes has come to fruition. No, Britney Spears has not been kidnapped by Peruvian rebels. But Philadelphia's Center City District is going to start a campaign encouraging people not to give money to panhandlers. It's a banner day for me.

I don't give money to panhandlers, no matter what excuse they give. I'm not mean, I just don't feel personally responsible to support someone's drug habit. There are organizations all over this city that work to rehabilitate homeless people, there are soup kitchens, and all sorts of services that are available to help these people -- I give my money to them.

What's really excellent about this is that Center City merchants are going to be making free cards available that list shelters and other programs where panhandlers and "homeless" people can go for help. Heh. I'm going to get a big old stack of them. There is a woman who sits outside of the Dunkin' Donuts and asks me for money every single morning. Won't she be surprised when it looks like I'm going to give her money, but she gets a card. There are going to be some totally pissed off people around here!

---

I typically spend about 45-60 minutes every day on the subway or on a bus. There is tons of advertising. Most of it is racially skewed.

Last Friday I was late to work because of some fuck up with the train. I had to take an additional bus and a different subway route. I had a lot of extra time to ponder the advertising. Someone screwed up when placing the advertisements for Eclipse gum. There are three separate ads -- two of them feature a black man from the nose to the chin, licking his teeth and one of them features a white woman from the nose to the chin, licking her teeth. The one with the white woman has a caption that reads "Va Voom." The ads with the black man have captions that read "Ma Snizzle" and "Cha-Ching." How absolutely wrong and racially stigmatizing is that? I sat there and stared in utter disbelief at the blatant stupidity of advertisers. And then I started laughing hysterically at the person who put these three ads all together -- it was either a brilliant outing of advertising idiocy or just some dumbass who didn't read the placement directions.

There's shit like that all over the city. For being a city that is filled with people of all colors and backgrounds, Philadelphia is still relatively segregated, neighborhood-wise. My current neighborhood, Fishtown, is mostly white. The next neighborhood over is predominatly latino. Alot of the neighborhoods in North Philly are mostly black. There are pocket neighborhoods of asian families in South Philly and North Philly. I'd say that very few neighborhoods in Philadelphia are honestly populated by an even mix of all ethnic backgrounds...maybe Center City, parts of West Philadelphia, Queens Village maybe. I've lived all over the city, and I've seen all the advertising. It makes me sick, to be honest.

I used to live in North Philadelphia at 19th & Girard. It's a predominantly black neighborhood, mostly families, and it's on the edge of a very poor ghetto. There were always huge billboards for malt liquor and Newport cigarettes, as well as other advertisements that were obviously geared toward what ad reps think are your typical ghetto fabulous family. The Eclipse ad that says "Ma Snizzle" would have fit right in with the other ludicrous advertising schemes.

It's not just the advertisements, though. Even the products readily available at convenience stores are different! One of my favorites is a line of potato chips called Rap Snacks. The first time I ever saw them was while living at 19th & Girard -- they were sold at the Texaco across the street from my apartment. Of course, being completely incredulous that anything this bizarre could be sold, I had to have them. The chips are actually awesome -- I'm a big fan of the Red Hot Cheddar chips with Mack Yo on the bag. The Sweeties are also pretty good. But the ultimate chips types are Chumpie Chips and Homegirl Chips [neither of which I could find a scan of, unfortunately]. Chumpie Chips have a little posse on the front of the bag and this little story on the back about how you can be "phat" while still being a good person and not "throwing down."

Now, I still have an unopened bag of Homegirl chips at home. I was afraid I'd never find them again. There's a gaggle of ghetto fabulous girls on the front of the bag and the back of the bag gives seriously Life Advice. Ready for it? Here it is:

Respect yo'self and others will repect you too! Remember girl: no ring, no thing!

I'm totally serious. I remember the very moment I read that little bit of sage advice. I was standing in front of the Texaco, ready to cross the street to get back to my apartment. I read it and immediately went into convulsive fits of laughter. My next door neighbor was this really sweet old lady -- she called across the street to me: "Honeybaby, are you OK?" I couldn't breathe, I couldn't talk -- I could nothing but roll around on the ground laughing hysterically. Is that not a beautiful moment?

---

Here's a tip when eating black bean garlic snails at a Chinese restaurant: suck the snail out of the shell.

Craig and I went to our favorite Chinese restaurant last night in Chinatown, Joe's Peking Duck House [925 Race Street]. My favorite thing on the menu is black bean garlic snails. The waiter looked at me like I was nuts: "You do know they're the small kind of snail, right?"

If you've never seen a plate of black bean garlic snails, it can be kind of a disgusting thing. The shells are the size of a penny and they're covered in thick black bean paste. The nice waiters bring little bamboo spears to pry the little snails out of their shell, but it can be difficult to get them out -- they like to hide!

So our waiter gave me a tip that I had not heard before -- you can literally suck them out. It worked much better than spearing them with the little stick, so thanks nice waiter guy!

Of course, I ended up literally covered in black bean sauce. It wasn't pretty at all. Luckily the waiter gave me wet naps.

After dinner we walked over to South Street to the Brick Playhouse for another Fringe Show. It was sketch comedy by a troupe called The Dive. Those guys are fucking nuts.

Sometimes I forget how lucky I am to live in Philadelphia. I've lived here for 12 years now and I have never grown tired of it. But sometimes I take it for granted. I grew up in a very rural town where there was nothing fun to do, you had to drive everywhere, and the place is just depressing. Living in Philly, I never have to drive anywhere and I can do fun things every night of my life if I want to. There are tons of theatres, the Orchestra, the Ballet, comedy houses, events like the Fringe Festival, live music, tons of food. I'm lucky.

I started thinking about it last night. On the way to South Street from Chinatown, we walked past the Liberty Bell and down 5th Street past Independence Hall, and the 17th Century Gardens. The streets were kind of quiet even though it was only 9pm. It was so peaceful, and really nice to just walk past the houses and the stores, holding hands with Craig. I love New York and San Francisco, but Philadelphia has this feel to it -- like Benjamin Franklin is just around the corner, or one day you're going to bump into Edgar Allan Poe.

---

So it's been established that I'm a total literature nerd, right? I'm the dork who gets the obscure jokes about The Metamorphosis or The Yellow Wallpaper. Today I saw something that made my geeky, book-loving heart leap for joy: a performance by the Headlong Dance Company called Britney's Inferno.

Imagine Britney's journey of discovery, rise to the "top," and predictable descent to the bottom told in a sort of allegorical dance piece a la Dante's Inferno. Bwa hahahaha! It was some of the best contemporary commentary performance art I've seen in quite some time. The show was complete with a segment about Britney learning her choreography ["OK, now what do we see in the reflecting pool? A mean angry dog. Shoo the dog away! Shoo the dog away!"]; Britney realizing that she's yesterday's news, marking herself up for plastic surgery and wrapping herself in plastic; and a chorus of dancers interspersing spastic ADD dance moves with Backstreet Boys choreography to N*Sync music. It was brilliant! Behold the power of the hair! So sayeth the dancers: "She's a complete lame loser who sings sucky music."

Can I get an Amen?

After the show Renee and I stopped at Bluezette where my spinach salad was comped because the dumbass waitress forgot to put the order in. But the peach cobbler was pretty excellent. Doesn't it always seem to come back to dessert with me?

Philly's Olde City neighborhood has become somewhat of an expired scene. And what I mean by that is there's a bunch of people running around who want so hard to be cool that it's obvious they are wannabes. Case in point: an obviously almost 40 year old woman with a completely fake body and face parading around in a denim jumpsuit that laces up the front from the crotch. Give it a rest: no one knows who you are and no one cares.

You can tell a neighborhood has gone beyond it's peak days when midwestern tourists start snapping pictures of you while you're eating. Move it along, nothing to see here.

I swear, the next haus frau in walking shorts who comes near me gets attitude.

---

"Spot the Baptist" has become a Philly-wide pasttime since the National Baptist Convention came to town. It isn't difficult to find them. They travel in groups, wearing outrageous millinery creations with matching churchwear. I saw a man yesterday wearing a powder blue sharkskin suit with little pink squares all over the suit, powder blue shoes, and a matching fedora.

It's a scary world we live in.

To prove that, I submit the antics of my hair stylist, Lisa. Last night I went to get my monthly root job only to discover that Lisa has lost her damn mind. She is so vested in American Idol that she actually is refusing to speak to anyone who didn't want Justin to win. Lisa is completely bitter and on the verge of tears at all times because Kelly won. I was there for two hours last night and it's all she talked about. The woman is 26 years old. She told me she voted for Justin 207 times Tuesday night. 207!

In addition, one of my co-workers, Maryellen, came running in to my cubicle this morning screaming, "Nicole, you look just like a woman on Big Brother!" I've never seen more than one or two episodes of Big Brother [and that was during the first season], so I had no idea I had a doppelganger on the show. And Maryellen only watched her first episode last night. Brooke, who is a Big Brother junky, agrees with Maryellen and tells me that she didn't want to let me know about it because this woman on the show [named Amy] is an alcoholic floozy. So I guess now I will have to break down and watch the next episode of Big Brother.

---

I get very cranky when my slumber is rudely interrupted. I am outrageously cranky this morning.

Let me explain: my new neighbors must die. A few weeks ago a couple moved in across the street. Craig [the nosiest person I know] said they were your typical young urban punks. They seemed nice enough.

At 1:30 am they invited all their idiot friends home with them and kept the entire neighborhood awake until 4:30 am. I like death metal, but not when it is keeping me from sleeping.

My favorite part of the episode, however, was when my neighbor and one of his friend started fighting in the middle of the street. One of them sounded like he was wearing a dozen bells, but it was really only a lot of chains that were hanging off their ensembles.

The reason I know this, by the way, is because [as noted above] Craig is nosier than an old woman. I am content just to lie in bed and attempt to ignore it. Craig feels the need to run around the house looking for a better vantage point from which to watch the action. He is a voyeur, I guess. Unfortunately, he also feels the need to give me a running account of all activities.

I need a nap.

---

The fashion police need to visit my neighborhood. On the way back from the supermarket this afternoon, Craig and I noticed a total smack local youth strolling down York Street wearing a positively ridiculous outfit. It was a button down shirt and supah baggy shorts, but they were made of the same fabric. The fabric was white with a hideous black pattern.

Me: What would possess someone to wear a thing like that?
Craig: My first thought is mental retardation. But since he's not wearing a football helmet with those threads, I think it's just bad taste.
Me: Maybe he lost a bet?

---

Navigating the escalator at the Spring Garden El stop is always a gamble. A few years ago some kid got his foot caught in an escalator at some stop in North Philly and the foot was literally torn off his body, so SEPTA took down all the escalators for repair. The escalator at Spring Garden was recently re-installed.

I'm about to reveal something to you that makes me absolutely wild with rage. I hate it when people don't walk up the escalator.

Now, I know what you're thinking: "But Nicole, walking up an escalator is silly. Aren't escalators meant just to be stood on?" Here's a secret -- the answer is no. They're meant to get you to your final destination quicker. And since most escalators don't get you anywhere faster than if you had walked up a flight of stairs, it's obvious that we should all get our out of shape asses walking up the escalator.

I'm willing to forgive this little lapse in judgement at places like malls. But when there's a train pulling in at the top of the escalator and some ass is just standing there like a moron, it's all I can do not to pummel the person.

Yes, I could take the stairs. I wrestle every day with that decision. There's about a 50-50 shot at getting stuck behind one of the immobile masses. I usually try to guage the people ahead of me. If they're old, I usually take the stairs. If they're absolutely idiotic looking, I will take the stairs. Sometimes I get lucky and everyone walks up the fucking escalator like they should.

Today was not one of those days. Some smacked ass in sneakers and black socks decided he was going to hold up 50 people behind him on the escalator just to be a bastard. And, of course, just as I finally make it off the escalator a train pulls out of the station. I had to do relaxation exercises mentally so I didn't push the fucker onto the tracks.

As you can tell, I'm bitter today.

---

I'm assuming that most people who read my ramblings are regular drivers. As a driver, do you pay attention to the various traffic signage around you and try hard not to hit pedestrians?

I work on the Benjamin Franklin Parkway in Philadelphia. The intersection where I cross the street every morning is a little unpredictable and confusing but it is by no means impossible to figure out. But every time the light turns red and I, as a pedestrian, have the right of way to cross the street, some dumbass ignores the nice lines painted by the Streets Department to indicate where traffic should stop and either a) parks in the crosswalk so I have step into on-coming traffic in order to cross the street or b) tries to run me over whilst crossing the street.

Three people have been hit crossing the street outside of our building this year that I know of. Sometimes I feel like I'm playing Frogger.

Occasionally I have this fantasy where some harried asshole in a penis-mobile stops his car in the middle of the crosswalk and I jump up on the hood of his car, hop up and down a few times on his hood for good measure, and then calmly continue to cross the street.

I admit to having a really bad attitude about being a pedestrian: I am the über-pedestrian. As soon as the light turns green, I will step off the curb and cross the street. I don't care if there is a car hurtling toward me, because if a car hits me when I have the right of way...well, providing I don't die, I will sue the pants off of you. If you refuse to stop where you should or try to give me attitude for crossing when I have the right of way, be prepared for truck driver language, obnoxious hand gestures, and dirty looks.

Nothing would make my day more than if I were deputized and able to give out tickets to drivers for being morons. I want to be Deputy Nicole of the Pedestrian Rights Enforcement Force. I would spend my days in a heady cloud of delirious glee, wielding my power with an iron ticket writing fist. I'd be like McGruff the Crime Dog, but without the overcoat and long ears.

---

Philadelphia is famous for several things, chief amongst them is the cheesesteak. I know that people who have never been to Philly think that a Steak 'Um sandwich on a hot dog roll is the same thing, but au contraire, mon frere!

There is something special about the Philly cheesesteak, and you can't get one anywhere else that even comes close. Trust me, I make it a habit to test the waters whenever I travel domestically. Seattle has great salmon, but the cheesesteaks are abyssmal...Denver's cheesesteaks are seriously subpar...and don't even get me started on the atrocity that passes for a cheesesteak in San Francisco!

Most true Philadelphians can argue over where in Philly has the best cheesesteaks, but there are three main contenders: Pat's, Geno's, and Jim's. I'm a Pat's girl....there's something about the grease that is tastier.

I've long held the belief that it's all about the grease when it comes to cheesesteaks. A cheesesteak isn't a cheesesteak unless it's made on a skillet that hasn't be de-greased since the beginning of time. Oh, and you have to have local bread -- maybe it's the polluted Schykill River water that makes it so good?

Now, there is a right way and a wrong way to ordering a cheesesteak. Pat's actually has a sign next to the window explaining the subtle nuances. I myself have written a technical writing paper on the correct procedure for ordering a cheesesteak.

One of my favorite online sources for the procedure is here...this guy doesn't believe in the "one way to order" procedure, but at least he explains why you should order a certain way. He also isn't overly fond of Pat's, but I'll let that slide...but I do agree with his assessment of the Provolone Wit.

I'm kind of hungry....

---

I'm glad that I had such a great time Friday night at the fireworks -- because seeing the fireworks at Penn Treaty Park was kind of a nightmare.

When I supposed that half my neighborhood would be there, I wasn't quite right: my entire neighborhood was there. And let me tell you -- the combined IQ of those present at the park last night [excluding Craig and I] wouldn't be enough to even qualify as "idiot."

I realize that in saying so I tend to look uncharitable and condescending. And I'm sure that, on some level, I don't give them enough credit. It all starts with the accent, though. And the mullet. For some unknown reason the entire neighborhood, both female and male, favor the mullet. You know what they say: business up front, but all party in the back.

More like mullet equals lack of brain cells. It's sort of like a distinguishing mark so others in the tribe will know their brethren. There were lots of parents sitting around swearing like truckers in loud tones, while their multitudes of offspring under the age of 5 ran around with sparklers and matches trying to burn everyone and everything in sight. So while Craig and I were huddled together trying not get run over or singed, the fireworks started.

We had a nice spot picked out. We had a great view of the bridge. Two seconds into the display three total morons came and stood immediately in front of us. I was so irked! I came up with several ideas of how to get them to move -- from flat out tackling them to shooting them in the calves with a BB gun. Finally we decided just to move. I'm not a wuss, but these guys had mullets and we were amongst their tribe. It would have just gotten ugly.

---

There's something to be said for simple pleasures.

I really wanted to see fireworks somewhere this year, but I didn't want to have to fight off crowds to do so. What can I say, I'm funny like that.

So last night at 9:30pm Craig and I jumped into his pickup truck and staked out a spot near Vet Stadium. There was a Phillies game last night after which there was a big fireworks display scheduled. I personally hate baseball -- it's the most boring sport on the planet to watch, next to golf and bowling, so I wanted no part of actually seeing the game.

We found a perfect spot, about two streets away, with an unobstructed view of Vet Stadium. I must not be the only one who hates baseball because within 15 minutes the street was packed with people who had the same idea. It was kind of funny -- we had our very own ice cream truck servicing the street, a passel of kids doing tricks on their bikes [we even had a bet going with the car next to us as to which little rugrat would take a header and need to be rush to the hospital], and lots of snacks.

I sometimes forget how fun it is just to lay in the back of Craig's truck with him and laugh our asses off. We looked at the stars and the flock of seagulls flying around overhead, and made fun of the other people around us. It was generally a good time. I'm so easy to please: my husband, a pickup truck, and a pack of strawberry licorice.

The fireworks started a little after 10pm, and they were spectacular. I would have to say they were the best fireworks I've seen in years. They were just so gorgeous and so loud and, well, just plain outstanding.

This evening we're going to see more fireworks -- I hope. There is a park near our house where we had our wedding pictures taken. The park overlooks the Ben Franklin Bridge, which is where the fireworks are this evening. We're going to hang out [probably with half our neighborhood] in the park and hope that we get a good view of the fireworks. Neither of us wants to go to Penn's Landing for a better view -- The Baha Men are having a free concert. Although, the concert area is likely to be deserted -- I mean really, who on earth would want to see The Baha Men perform? Even for free! No, uh uh, no way.

---

Possible terrorist attacks on July 4...la la la I can't hear you! I've decided to completely ignore that noise. As of now I'm taking the stand that ignorance is bliss. Wonder how long I'll be able to play that off?

I'm on the street waiting for the bus [hooray for Palm Pilots!]. Someone on the next block has LL Cool J blasting from their house. I want want to run over there, knock on the door, and say "Hey there can I cop a jam with you?" Unfortunately, in my neighborhood, the person would probably be an axe-wielding murderer with a blood lust for little white blonde girls in linen.

It's times like these, though, that I kind of like my neighborhood [not when the neighbors have mayhem in their eyes]. I just stand here on the corner, no one mistakes me for a prostitute, the weather is beautiful, the neighbors and other locals are scarce. It's pretty and peaceful. You can't often say that about any North Philly neighborhood. And the reality is that there are hookers and dealers doing their business a few streets over. But it's pretty here.

---

There is something weird and slightly mystical about living in an historic city. I was walking underground in the Concourse this morning trying to avoid stepping in loogies and urine and thinking that no matter where I step something disgusting, bad, or, alternatively, amazing happened.

Really, Philadelphia has been around for a while -- I believe the first people were here somewhere around the neighborhood of 1640-ish. The history here is staggering, and every inch of this place is positively crawling with stories.

Every once in a while I get the urge to just stop where I am on the street and dig.....sort of wondering what sort of artifacts of the past I'll find. When construction started on the new house for the Liberty Bell the crews found all sorts of things -- the backhoe-ing had to be stopped for an archeological dig.

Of course, there are some places better left untouched. There are quite a few parks in town -- Rittenhouse Square, Independence Park, etc....they used to be cemetaries. There is even a ghost story revolving around Independence Park (which is the stretch of grass behind Independence Hall). Supposedly every once in a while you'll see a hunched over old woman in a black shroud sort of floating through the Park, looking for her grave. Spooky, eh?

Of course, Philly's neighborhoods are some of the oldest areas of town. I live in Fishtown [FYI - thus called because all the dock workers congregated in my neighborhood]....there is a graveyard down the street called Palmer Burial Ground that was founded in 1732. My house was built in the early 1800's and has the original floors. Sometimes I sit around and imagine who might have lived in my house, who built my house.

---

Craig thinks we should buy a case of belts. Apparently there is a disturbing fashion trend in our neighborhood: boys who like to go shirtless while wearing boxer shorts pulled up to their armpits and super loose jeans hanging down around the knees. It's not a good look.

You see, it would be a mission of mercy. Obviously these poor unfortunates cannot afford luxury items -- you know, like belts. So we could roam the neighborhoods looking for the tired, the homeless: the beltless.

A belt could give these young beltless men something to live for. A goal, even! To be able to see the look of gratitude on a beltless man's face when I give him his very own belt would just be wonderful.

We could call our mission "Belts for a Less Ugly Neighborhood," or BLUN....or "Belts for Fashionable Youth" [I guess that would be BFY]....or just plain "Here's a Belt so I don't have to look at your Underwear."

It's a grand plan.

---

It started innocently enough. I was at The Pyramid Club for an event and I was standing outside the room talking to Louise. Howard came out and said that something really big was on fire.

Since we were 52 stories up in the middle of Philly, I figured we could see it from the meeting room. Louise and I pressed our faces against the glass of the north facing window.

The fire was massive and in my neighborhood.

Huge billows of black smoke looked like they were coming from an entire city block. I was a little freaked out.

You know how it is -- you always assume the worst [am I projecting?]. So I spent the next 3 hours obsessing over the fact that I just knew my whole block was burning to the ground and poor Sassy the tap dancing cat was trapped because she couldn't wedge her fat ass out the little hole that she had to escape from.

After the meeting I heard two guys from the catering team talking about it. Third and Girard, they said.

I sighed the proverbial sigh of relief, and called Craig. "I'm stuck in traffic," he lamented. "No one is moving -- I'm on Sansom between 15th & 16th in front of your yoga studio."

So I did the wifely thing to do -- I walked over and met him in traffic. Misery loves company, you know.

Our neighborhood was a mess. The fire was just a little closer than Third & Girard....it was Oxford and Hancock, which is about 5 blocks away. Massive fire at a meat packing plant -- the whole neighborhood smelled like barbecued chicken.

I have never really hated the news media until last night. It's a fire, people! No one died or even got hurt -- take your noisy helicopters at 2am and go back to your newstation, for the love of pete and all that's hole-y!

It is now my mission in life to destroy the evil empire of news helicopter pilots. Because you don't need that much stock footage of smoke. Go away and leave my mulletted neighborhood alone!