M said it yesterday, Philadelphia is a blue collar town. You can say that again. I've been here close to two weeks and I've taken in a few sights, a lot of advice and some frigid weather. On the whole I'm OK with Philly.
Given a choice between Philadelphia and Boston, I think I'd take Boston, but it's only because I haven't found anything in Philly to love. Time and experience might very much change that, but it hasn't happened yet. Both towns are very much alike in terms of cultural geography, but Philly is a lot less sophisticated. That's not to say that there is no elegance here, there is, and it's nicer than that in Boston quite frankly but it all seems to be in one place rather than spread out. Give me a choice between Boston and Philly, I'd have to take Boston, but only because I've only seen Philly in winter. Given a choice between Boston in winter and Philly in winter, I'd pick San Diego.
I haven't seen the ugly side of Philly and it's not stalking me, but I see the edges in my periphery. This town is notorious for the rowdiness of Eagles fans. When it comes to the games, women and children should stay at home.
Last night was the best night by far. It was one of those nights when my charm was working on all 8. I started off heading to Bluezette but first I saw the Liberty Bell for the first time. It's shiny! Whoda thunk. That's about all the revelation on that score, but it's done. I want to hear freedom ring. Somebody ought to make a replica - or maybe they have and I have heard them, but it was too cold for me to hang around and find out. Plus the little museum was closed. And so off to Bluezette.
I headed towards the Penn Landing from 6th St down the numbers. The themometer at the radio studio says 29 degrees. Nice and warm compared to earlier this week. I could walk all night. I finally got to Bluezette and I think it's closed down, so the hell with that place. My boy told me it was the place to be, but reviews in the Zagat clones are full of excoriation. So I had to trudge back over towards the Old City. And then I had some fun of the sort I never did before.
Everybody knows that a black man can't catch a cab in New York. When I lived at 125th & Broadway and I knew I needed to catch a cab downtown, I would always stop first for an ice cream cone. That way I could break the 20, eat half a cone while I wait and throw the rest at whichever cabbie was fool enough to ignore me. But here in Philly, cabs are plentiful and I have not once had any trouble getting one. Instead, I decided to be cruel and reverse the joke. I walked up Walnut and flagged down four cabs then told them all nevermind. I laughed myself silly. This is something you can do in Philly. Well, maybe not on Walnut any more.
I ended up once again at Zanzibar Blue and this time it was hopping, at least compared to the other two trips. The first night I had to sit near the TV that was repeating itself ad infinitum about that dead glamor chick's baby. Presciently it was all on the day before she died. Do I sound callous? Every man's death diminishes me, every airhead millionaire suicide not so much. Anyway I had a ball with Texas, NorCal and Philly folks around the bar even before the 2nd margarita (straight up, no salt, house tequila). NorCal and I went around the corner to the Mahogany Cigar Bar.
Finally I found something to love about Philly. Now Zanzibar is all that. In fact, it has got to be the third best jazz joint of all time when it comes to ambiance. Still, there is something about the enticing power of a brass rail bar full of drinking and smoking men in suits that makes me feel really comfortable. There's no better way to explain it than to recognize straight out that I could very well be playing the 'what happens in Philly stays in Philly' game with various fillies, but instead I can indulge in other less consequential vices uninhibited: Alcohol and Tobacco. Aside from all that, there's the distinct pleasure of hanging out with old timers.
We talked about everything and nothing, of cabbages and kings deep into a forty dollar Maker's Mark & Montecristo buzz. I stumbled back to the hotel by way of the Ritz Carlton smelling singlehandedly like half of an old-boy network. But I was much richer in terms of knowledge of the serious authentic Italian restaurants in the city and something called a 'greens sandwich'. The rest I can't remember but it's in my Treo somewhere.
I slept in this morning, exactly 30 minutes. My internal clock is readjusted completely. Thirty degrees is perfectly comfortable and I'm suddenly not interested at all in the Liberty Bell. Today I strolled through the Galleria in my homeboy suit recognizing how much it reminded me, in its own way of the Albee Square Mall in Brooklyn. I picked up some Slim Twins and now it's time to shave my head for this evening's festivities. What they might be, I have no idea. But I'm sticking around Philly this weekend.
Unless Tooley says different, because truth be told, I wouldn't mind throwing some DC into the mix.
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