The Essence of Schwenk

My friend Kelsey whined at me during a Gmail chat the other day, complaining that I've been spending too much time writing for America in 100 Days, and not enough writing here at Conshohocken Freedom. Sorry, Kelsey. I hate to disappoint you.

If I had anything to write about, it would be about how stupid the Steelers are, and how stupid our friend Brent is for being from Pittsburgh and being a Steelers fan. Usually I'd be ripping on the next team on the Eagles' schedule, which in this case is the Cardinals - but the Steelers are so stupid that I can't even begin to think about Arizona.

But Brent knows how stupid he is, and I don't want to spend my time writing about it right now. Instead, I'll share with you an old video of a friend of mine from college, who decided to take a breather during a gave of 100-cup beirut. Sorry it's sideways, but it still gets the point across; my favorite part is when he waves to the people across the street.

But shhh... don't tell him.

Happy new month

Frankly, I prefer to celebrate 12 times a year.

Anyway, I know it's been a while, and I don't have much energy to write, after savoring every bite of one of the most delicious meals of my life this evening, courtesy of Nectar in Berwyn. But here's a video I just stumbled upon in a moment of googleboxing, which isn't quite the old Orson Welles video but it's close.

Enjoy! And question reality every now and then.

Cyclists

For starters, I have to apologize to those of you who might wish that I produced writing of slightly more substance here on Conshohocken Freedom than I do. Sadly, I have no time for such frivolous pursuits. I do, however, have a lot of things I'd like to bitch and piss and moan about, and it feels much better to do so in some sort of a public venue, such as this. Thus, in case you haven't noticed, the bulk of my writing here has degraded into a collection of rants, raves and phenomenally written complaints.

Not that there's anything wrong with that. And frankly, this early morning's post will be no different. Today we're bitching about cyclists.

You see, there was a time when the best mode of personal transportation may very well have been a bicycle. Regardless, it is not the case today. In fact, the most popular method these days for that sort of activity is probably a car. And to compensate for this fact, they've built roads. Paved roads, lots and lots of 'em that stretch for miles and miles in every which direction. And these roads are maintained in large part by fees levied upon car drivers, in exchange for the ability to use those roads as they were intended.

Cyclists don't pay anything extra to maintain these roads. And you might argue, that's ridiculous, Tom, a bicycle couldn't do even a hint of damage to a road, so why should they have to pay for their maintenance?

I say, perhaps they should. After all, there are plenty of places where the shoulder of the road is designated specifically as a bike lane. And where there aren't bike lanes, that's no fucking problem for most of them anyway. They get in the middle of the goddamn lane of traffic, slowing every single fucking car behind them down to a crawl so that they can enjoy their fucking bike ride in full view of the public.

This is the big problem. This is what makes me madder than I ever get on the road, when these fucking assholes who are all decked out in cyclist gear - the goggles, the helmet, the spandex - decide they've got every right to use up the road as someone in a car, despite the fact that they're almost inevitably going half the fucking speed limit. This is not due to any lack of cycling skill of their behalf, it's simply impossible for most anybody to ride a bike 35 mph on even a flat road for any extended period of time.

Let's pretend for a moment that the idiot on the bike, all covered in cycling logos as if he's a professional, corporate-sponsored athlete, were instead behind the wheel of a car going 20 in a 35 with a line of traffic behind him. I'm pretty sure he'd cause someone to have an aneurism. So why the fuck do we let cyclists get away with it?

The other night at work, Bernadette, Miguel and I were discussing own individual hatreds for cyclists, specifically large groups of them, deciding that like a flock of hens or a murder of crows, the best term was a cock of cyclists.

But moreover, Bernadette noted that cyclists can be good in certain situations, such as the annual bike race in Manayunk which involves heavy drinking by practically ever single spectator (or else someone's lost).

This led Bernadette to her compromise. The best way to turn these terrible people into something that works to our benefit is to cling to the bike race all year round, and simply drink every time you're driving and you see a cyclists. That way, you'll actually be excited to see a cyclist on the road, even if he is making you late for work.

Thanks, cyclist! I get to drink now!

Not that I'm condoning drinking and driving. But let me tell you, when those motherfuckers ride gleefully down the road in my lane without a care in the world, it makes me want to not just break the law, but smash it into tiny little fucking pieces all over the back of their heads.

We have sidewalks and biking trails for a reason, guys. Get. the. fuck. out. of. the. way.

Thank you.

Fast Food

I've always been fortunate enough to have a metabolism that allows for problem-free consumption of pretty much anything I sink my teeth into. I've had some bouts with massive quantities of some of the fattiest foods you can imagine, including a year-long love affair with Grandma Utz's potato chips, which are baked in lard for maximum flavor, and for most, maximum weight gain. This has never been too much of a problem for me, as I usually find a way to hover around 160-165 lbs. without any regard to my diet.

And if you've followed my blog to any degree, you'll remember when I was finding my footing as to what I'd be writing about here, and I spent a large amount of my time writing about cheesesteaks. I still eat cheesesteaks on a pretty regular basis, but I haven't found the need (or frankly, the time) to tell any luminous stories about chopped beef and cheese lately. My point being, I still don't eat the healthiest foods the world has to offer.

But fast food is where I draw the line.

Fast food is disgusting. Food served quickly is okay, but I define fast food as coming from specific establishments like McDonald's, Wendy's, Burger King, KFC, Taco Bell, and so forth.

Sure, it tastes good when the time is right, or when you've had far too much to drink the night before and your stomach needs a good grease lining. And it's usually as cheap a meal as you'll be able to find anywhere.

But the meat in the burgers or tacos or whatever you're eating doesn't actually taste the way you think it does. That flavor that closely resembles real beef is nothing more than a chemical made in a lab, specifically selected for its flavor as if it were a cologne for your mouth. in actuality, the meat you're eating is a flavorless mixture of miscellaneous cow parts and the contents of their stomachs and bowels.

Wikipedia claims that the notions that KFC uses genetically modified abominations of chickens as their product, and that they're not allowed to use the term Kentucky Fried Chicken anymore due to a legal action by the state of Kentucky, are both 'urban legends'. But I believe them anyway.

This brings me back to Conshohocken. My home in Conshy is close to the center of town, where the streets are dotted with a plethora of delicious delis, sandwich shops and restaurants that serve up really good food on fairly short notice. The closest fast food is McDonald's, the fucking devil himself, on the other side of the bridge. But right next to McDonald's is Wawa, glorious 24-hour Wawa, home to Sizzlis, Classic Hoagies and the most awkward door exchanges for your buck. And there's nothing in the world that would make me go for McDonald's over Wawa. Even if Wawa was closed for some inexplicable reason, I'd rather get food from the Lukoil station than the fucking McDonald's.

Thus, it's been a long, long time since the last time I ate any fast food. So here's to Pete's Deli, Dimeo's Pizza and the many other Conshohocken businesses who give me food I can enjoy.

Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time

I was never so privileged as many of the kids I knew growing up, with regard to various material goods. On second thought, maybe privileged isn't the right word - maybe spoiled is a better one. Regardless, my parents didn't waste a whole hell of a lot of their money buying useless crap for me. Sure, they spent enough to keep me entertained, but I was usually near the end of the train when it came to buying new stuff. The big new video game system would come out and everyone would be talking about it and making me feel generally left out but indignant at the same time. And eventually I'd get to play it at someone's house, or wait the necessary amount of time for a newer, more advanced system to come out so that I could buy the old one at a get-this-out-of-my-store discount price. It all worked out in the end.

Well, during high school, my friend Kyle was heavy into video games, for any system you could think of. At one point he had Playstation, Nintendo 64, Sega Dreamcast AND its predecessor, the rarely-seen Sega CD, all hooked up to his TV at the same time. And with a little direction from my friend Kyle, I got my filthy mitts on a used N64 and a short stack of games.

Sure, I had played more than my share of Goldeneye. Weeks worth, in fact. I was even fairly adept with its spinoff game, Perfect Dark. I knew Slippy, Falco and the rest of the Star Fox gang. And I'd enjoyed long hours of Mario 64 and MarioKart 64 on more occasions than I could number.

But I'd never played the Ocarina before.

By the way, right around here is where I'd like to bitch for a second about blogger.com, the site that hosts Conshohocken Freedom. They've got a great, free service that I figured out pretty quickly. But just recently, all of my posts have this really annoying behavior when I put images in. The one at the very top lets the text wrap around it, but none of the subsequent ones do. They used to, all the time. It's a goddamn disgrace.

Anyway, this was and continues to be the game to trounce all games, one that designed by marvelously clever Japanese programmers to incorporate content suitable for practically any age, confounding puzzles and challenges (for even a moderately intelligent high schooler), fierce battles with various creatures and an endless array of irritatingly catchy tunes.

The game is based upon the classic Zelda theme of elf-boy must save princess. On the way, I spent more than a month twisting and toiling through this seemingly endless game, eventually giving way to the extremely helpful video game guide. I don't know if I would have made it without that guide, frankly. There are so many portions of the game, so many accessible areas, and so much stuff to do that if you can get it started, you're not going to stop until you beat it.

I thought of this because I brought it over to my girlfriend Bernadette's house the other day so I could play it when she's doing homework. In my mind, there is no topping this game, no matter how much money it costs or how new it is.

And don't try to convince me otherwise.

The Flash

Today I was driving home from work at the P.R. company, along my typical route at typical speeds. One leg of this 20-or-so-minute drive involves a few miles on Barren Hill Rd., a winding, two-lane road passing by houses and few residential streets. It's hard to drive the speed limit on this road (35 mph), especially when there's on one in front of you, but going too fast (i.e. 50 mph or more) is not an option either, as the road is not a straight shot in any way.

So I'm cruising along at around 42 or 43 mph, about 2/3 of the way along Barren Hill Rd. when an approaching car flashes its high beams at me, five times in rapid succession. My first instinct was that either my lights weren't on, or that my high beams were on and the approaching driver didn't appreciate it.

But this didn't make any sense, as it was 4:30 in the afternoon (too early for headlights to be necessary and too early for high beams to blind anyone). My low beams were on.

Then I realized that this car was doing me a rare but invaluable favor. The flash can mean three things: fix your lights, go ahead (i.e. at a stop sign) or SLOW DOWN, there's a cop up ahead. In this instance it could only mean the last of the three, and I knew it.

It may not have been entirely necessary, as I wasn't going all that fast. But I heeded that car's warning and took it down to about 36 or 37 mph. And sure enough, about 500 feet later, there he was. A cop car sat at an angle in a driveway, ready to pounce at any moment.

So three cheers to that random stranger in the passing car. Despite the fact that this sort of maneuver is morally suspicious and clearly illegal, that driver stuck his or her neck out and saved me quite a bit of hassle, as well as possibly a speeding ticket and points on my license.

Thank you, sir or madam, for your thoughtfulness and courtesy. I hope I can return the favor someday.

Eating in Conshy: Sit-Down Breakfast

After living here in town for more than a year now, I've provided myself with plenty of opportunities to sample the local fare. There are plenty of places to get a bite on the go, and considerably fewer for sitting down to eat. Luckily, the former of the two of usually my preferred method, and I've indulged on many, many occasions.

And as near as I can tell, I've pretty much exhausted the options for sit-down breakfast. With two categories to consider, here is my judgement.

The first is the 401 Diner, named for its address on Fayette St. This place has the look of an old school diner from the outside, and inside follows suit, with a jukebox that skips incessantly and waitresses whose voices are baritone or bass from decades of smoking. Food is reasonable in price, size and quality, but this so-called "diner" has one fundamental flaw. They are not open 24 hours a day. In my book, that's pretty much the definition of a diner, so this place loses some points for that reason alone.

The only other place in town for a sit-down meal is Boccella's, a small, quaint operation at 521 Fayette St. This place first caught my eye after the day of the Pennsylvania democratic primary, when Hillary Clinton came to town and got a chicken cheesesteak here. Myself being an ardent Barack Obama supporter, it made me avoid this place for a time.

But soon I caved, going here one morning with Bernadette and our co-worker Shar. They had a very good breakfast menu, inside a comfortable atmosphere (though somewhat small) with young servers. This is usually a warning sign for me of trouble to come, as none of them looked older than 16. But these kids were on.

While the 401 Diner wins with regard to hours (open for dinner every night with breakfast all day), they lost those points for not being a 24-7 operation. And Boccella's, while nowhere near to a 24-7 place (closing as early as 3 pm some days), beats the crap out of that stupid diner. Their food is superior by leaps and bounds, their service is friendly and expedient, and their prices are just as reasonable.

Thus, the best dine-in breakfast in town is at Boccella's.

Post-Election Coverage

Last night was a good night for me (see my endorsement from yesterday), as about 120 million people cast their votes for president, giving us a new president-elect in Barack Obama.

However, this was not the only race I was following. You may remember my remarks on Michele Bachmann, a congresswoman from Minnesota who wears her ignorance on her sleeve and isn't afraid to make a fool of herself on national TV. To my dismay, the brilliant people of Minnesota were incapable of removing her from office last night, handing her a victory by just a few percentage points.

And let's not forget Ted Stevens, the six-term Alaska senator who is most famous in my mind for his hilarious, gut-busting comments regarding the internet. Let's revisit:

"I just the other day got, an internet was sent by my staff at 10 o'clock in the morning on Friday and I just got it yesterday. Why? Because it got tangled up with all these things going on the internet commercially... They want to deliver vast amounts of information over the internet. And again, the internet is not something you just dump something on. It's not a truck. It's a series of tubes. And if you don't understand those tubes can be filled and if they are filled, when you put your message in, it gets in line and its going to be delayed by anyone that puts into that tube enormous amounts of material, enormous amounts of material."

What a fucking asshole. More recently, he was found guilty of seven counts of making false statements amid a personal bribery scandal - one week before the election. This would usually be something that would prevent a politician from holding onto their seat. But leave it to the lunatics in Alaska to allow him to do exactly that: as of this moment, he holds a 1.5% lead in his race, which has not yet been called (according to NYTimes.com).

High fives all around for Obama's victory and everything, but I'll be very cautious of Central Minnesotans and pretty much all Alaskans for a long, long time.

Barack Obama for President

Today's the day, dear readers, and this is my official endorsement.

After two consecutive elections in which the correct choice was undeniably clear, yet both times forsaken for the single worst president I think I'll ever have to live through, I have very little faith remaining in the common sense of my fellow Americans. Our own inability to see through the bullshit has left us in a dire state of need. We need another Republican driving this country into the ground just about as much as I need a fucking bullet in my head.

But I have not lost all faith. After all, just two years ago, Pennsylvanians came together to oust former senator Rick Santorum, the most vile, sinister piece of shit who has ever spoken in English. And we did so by a wide margin - a sign, perhaps, that we're coming to our senses.

Thousands of Americans and nearly 100,000 innocent Iraqi civilians have been killed since we marched into war in Iraq, scorned, lied to and taken for idiots by a crafty, arrogant Bush administration. Billions upon billions of dollars have been squandered in this conflict, which was supposed to pay for itself in oil...which, by the way, has been the bane of our wallets and pocketbooks in these past years.

The gap between rich and poor in America is greater now than it has ever been. Our environment has been neglected to a dangerous point, both nationally and globally. And in the eyes of the rest of the world, we are not the America we used to be. We're a bunch of assholes with the shittiest president we've ever had, and we've lost any place of reverence in the global community.

Fuck you, George Bush. I wish I could take the whole country by the hand and chant it in unison. But to be frank, the notion of a black president is something that many would have thought impossible even a few years ago. If electing Barack Obama isn't a big, fat "fuck you" to George Bush, then I don't know what is.

So mark it down. Conshohocken Freedom gleefully endorses Barack Obama for President of the United States.

Now get out and vote!

Sightseeing

You're probably all really mad at me for not having written anything for so long. I'm sorry. In the meanwhile, it's not as if I've been lounging around watching cartoons and drinking soda. God knows I'd prefer nothing else in the world, but no - aside from my usual heavy workload, I've been out doing stuff. Let's talk about it with the help of a few photos.

This photo features the line, in which I was standing, outside The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. This was way back on October 8th. I'd traveled up to enjoy this marvelous Comedy Central program from the studio audience, rather than the boring old "watch from home" scenario.

This is Dave, the cool-as-Tom-Jones fellow using his textular device on the left. To his sideis Ian, doing his best monkey impression on the right. These two gentlemen, along with Ian's dad (Papa J), were the impetus and accompaniment for this little journey.

...And here we have the all-too-appropriate sign over the door.

Now, here's where we hit a snag. We were informed on numerous occasions that we were obligated to turn off and put away any electronic devices that could record any of the performance in any way - cameras, cell phones, Ipods, anything. This was, of course, a huge disappointment for me, and I realized that I'd feel like a huge jackass if I didn't at least try.

So from my right pocket, I pulled my camera out just slightly, cleverly turning off the flash. And I managed to snap three photos, of quality ranging from poor to marginally visible due to the severity of the situation. I was, at this point, pretty satisfied with myself.

But of course, I had to push it. After Jon Stewart put on a very good show, with Michelle Obama as the clearly exhausted but very amicable and gracious guest, the crowd of close to 200 began to disperse. An usher/intern type person had thanked us for our attendance and directed us toward the exits. And in the fray, I thought I had a fantastic opportunity for a photo. I popped my camera up and snapped a killer shot of the stage, only to look back at the usher/intern girl as she pointed directly at me and sent a security guard my way, who promptly made me delete my photos. Huuuuge bummer.

This ended up being the most concrete proof of my visit. But things soon took a turn for the better; once the show was done, I parted company with my crew and galloped headlong into the depths of the city.

I was able to meet up with a handful of friends, including (from left to right) Kelsey, Bill, myself and Cheese. The bunch of us date back to college, to my fraternity days in Phi Mu Delta at Susquehanna University. Also included in the evening were my friends Tats (another fraternity brother of mine) and Noah, not pictured here.

We insulated our stomachs with delicious pizza from a place called Ultimate Pizza, at 401 E. 57th Street, just a few blocks from Cheese's and Tats's apartment. Buffalo chicken on the left, BBQ chicken on the right. Buffalo was better.

...Aaaaand here's the drinking establishment where we enjoyed a few beverages.

Now, as is usually the case, I had to be home in time to work at 4:30 the next afternoon, so I would have to make some moves the next morning in order to make it home in time. They began with this, an immaculate scribbling of directions on the front of this Chinese menu, courtesy of Tats and his flawless sense of direction.

Rode the subway with my new metro card, a brilliant invention that Philly's opposite-of-beloved SEPTA just cannot seem to wrap its mind around. I purchased this metro card from a machine, one that operated 24 hours a day, another concept that seems just slightly out of SEPTA's reach.

Long story shorter, I made it home with plenty of time before work. Interestingly enough, the wait was shorter for a Greyhound from the Port Authority to Center City Philadelphia (about 35 minutes in line) than the wait for a SETPA train from Market East to Conshohocken (about 50 minutes, even on a weekday).

The sightseeing continued three days later, on a Saturday that was also to include a day at work, only this time beginning at 2:30 or 3 or something. Again, let's go to the photos.

I didn't catch this girl's name. This girl was a volunteer for the Obama campaign, handing out stickers that acted as admission to a big Barack Obama for President campaign stop in Germantown, in Northwest Philadelphia. This was one of four local stops of which his campaign had notified me through email.

The email said that the doors would open at 9:00 for the 11:30 event. I didn't think it would be too big a deal if I showed up at 9:15, which I did. But after parking about eight blocks from the site of the speech, passing car after car checkered with Obama/Biden stickers, I encountered this, the line. This line stretched around for another five blocks or so, bringing my foot travel at this point to about thirteen blocks - several above my comfort level.

The line began to fill in behind me within minutes. We crawled slowly forward, one step at a time with long, frequent breaks between movements. I ended up standing in line for more than two hours, with an ever-growing line snaking through the streets of Germantown behind me.

As I approached Vernon Park, the site of the rally, a sizeable crowd had collected across the street. I assume these were the people who'd shown up far too late and didn't try to brave the line. Who's the wiser between me and them, I'm not 100% sure.

Finally in, a few minutes after the scheduled 11:30 start. The volunteers outside were nice enough to warn us that there would be an "airport-style security checkpoint" on the way in, which I'd anticipated, but still took as a friendly gesture. The park supposedly holds as many as 10,000 people, but I have no idea how many they managed to pile in before the rally finally began, around 11:45, considering how close I was to missing some or all of it.

There were some big names who came out to start things off, including Mayor Michael Nutter, Senator Bob Casey and Governor Ed Rendell, all good people who each took a brief turn at the microphone. 

Soon, Senator Barack Obama came out and delivered a fiery speech, frought with motions with his right hand. He talked about Wall Street tanking, John McCain being a dick and how stupid you'd have to be to not vote for him. In lighter terms than I've used, of course, but that's the jist of what he went over. A rousing speech that lasted about a half hour, it was well worthy of the afternoon I devoted to it.

After a weekend filled with work at the restaurant, I would usually be dilligently zipping off to my P.R. job in Mt. Airy on Monday morning. However, this weekend I'd arranged for the day off in order to make room for a third sightseeing adventure, and the last one I'll mention here.

Here's a sight from Monday, October 13, during my drive west to State College, Pa. for a concert billed as "Change Rocks". The show would feature the Allman Brothers Band (or the remnants thereof, plus Warren Haynes) opening for The Dead, or a rare reunion of the surviving members of the Grateful Dead - Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, Billy Kreutzmann and Bob Weir, referenced above. Big fucking deal for me, as I happen to be a huge fan of the Grateful Dead and an avid collector of their music, in case I haven't already had that conversation with you before.

On the right we have Ryan Miller, a guy who I graduated from high school with and worked with at John Harvard's Brew House in Wayne, Pa. for several years before they closed in December. Nice guy. To the right of him stands Jami Salvucci, sister of Joey Salvucci, my good buddy and former (and future) roommate, pictured all the way to the right. At this point the sunglassed guy talking to him was asking us for a beer, if I remember correctly.

Here's Sarah, that brilliant maker of culinary miracles.

On the left, Coleen, a good friend and opener of minds as a philosophy professor. On the right, Dolla Bill, whose mind Coleen is in the process of opening further.

After some time in the parking lot, we made our way into the Bryce Jordan Center. At this point, I was getting a little tired of waiting in lines.

Though we were rewarded with a pleasant view.

And as a fitting end, upon entry to the venue, I was forced to remove the batteries from my camera. Naturally. Wouldn't want me taking any photos of the most terrific concerts I might ever be fortunate enough to see in my entire life.

The show was great, with the Allman Brothers Band opening, Barack Obama speaking during the break (not in person, just on a big screen), and The Dead (Bob Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart and Bill Kreutzmann with Warren Haynes and a few others) played a setlist from out of a dream. A magical evening that I'm sorry to say I wasn't able to document for posterity.

On a side note, don't expect me to ever put this many photos into one post again, because it took fucking forever.

New Web Site, Bitches

Today saw the launch of America in 100 Days, a new home for my writing. Note, I didn't say THE new home, just A new home. This is the site where I will document my upcoming road trip across the country, as well as the planning leading up to it and the possible or likely destinations which lie in our paths. Sarah and Joey will be welcome to publish their own material therein as well, which I'm not sure that they will.

Bearing in mind that this will be mostly me writing, I'm trying to make a legitimate travel blog of it. So I might curb my language juuuuust a tad. For posterity's sake. Otherwise, this will take up some free time (of which I have very little), but I will continue to rant and rave about various nonsense here on Conshohocken Freedom as often as humanly possible.

Long and the short of it, there's my excuse for a dry couple of weeks here on Conshohocken Freedom. I swear I have a very long post to put up very soon.

Fuck You, Michele Bachmann

Hey guys. So I'm in the process of writing a good long post about a few recent adventures, and using a lot of photos, which is making it go really slowly. This website is not exactly the most conducive towards sharing photos in the way I'd like to. But I had to take a break and show you this.

THIS fucking blithering idiot, named Michele Bachmann, should no more be a member of congress than she should be in a fucking zoo. These comments were made just days ago, and not in the 1950's, as the context may have suggested. THIS woman deserves not only to be voted out of office, but put in stocks and splattered with rotten tomatoes and horse droppings.

The best thing you can do is visit Tinklenberg for Congress, the webpage of Elwyn Tinklenberg, her challenger this year for her Congressional seat, and give him money to beat her. I gave him $20 yesterday, money that I should be saving. But fuck, if you need another reason to help him beat this terrible Michele Bachmann woman, just watch the video again.

Dumbass of the Week

Here's an idea, an every-weekend winner of who made us all embarassed to be humans. This week, it's a tie:

1. O.J. Simpson. This dumb shit brutally murdered his wife Nicole Simpson, and her friend Ron Goldman about fifteen years ago or something. He then jumped into a white Ford Bronco, sped down a highway on national television with a fleet of police behind him, then surrendered, and spent god knows how long on trial, again on national television, before by some unbelievable stroke of luck for him, he was acquitted of those murders. Even though it was incredibly obvious to all involved that he was guilty, especially after the release of his book, If I Did It.

Now, thirteen years after his acquittal to the day, this idiot has been found guilty of kidnapping and armed robbery for breaking into some dude's house with five other guys to steal back some sports memoribilia. Minimum of fifteen years. Why push your luck, y'know?

2. Sarah Palin. This fucking moron was selected by the maverick John McCain to help him buck the policies of the last eight years and start anew with the exact same policies. She is the first female VP candidate for the GOP, and she is more embarassing than Dan Quayle. Her most outrageous steps away from sanity include firing a librarian for not allowing her to ban books, and her Pentecostal history (see the movie "Borat" for an example of this behavior, which involves "speaking in tongues" like a crazy person).

Most recently, she had a widely publicized interview with Katie Couric, in which she could not name any magazines or newspapers which she read to keep up with local and global affairs. Nor could she name a single U.S. Supreme Court decision, aside from Roe v. Wade, with which she did not agree.

And her explanation for not being able to answer these fairly important questions for most people running for national office? She said, in an interview on FOX News, that she was not being asked the questions she wanted. She was looking for opportunities to bash Barack Obama, and instead she had to answer substantive questions about herself and what she knows about the world she'd be a major influence upon if she were successful in her hilarious bid for the vice presidency.

Fuck you both for making the world turn slower.

Things I Hate: Moshing

I'm sure you're all familiar with The Colbert Report, a show on Comedy Central that I'd gladly list among my favorite programs on TV. There are plenty of reasons I enjoy it as much as I do, but one in particular makes his show especially enjoyable. Stephen Colbert employs a variety of ongoing series within his show that are all so funny, that regardless of whether it's "Threatdown", "The Word" or "Better Know a District" (my personal favorite), I'm always excited to see the next part in any of them. So I figure, why not try to do that here, with a handful of series like "Drink This Beer" or "Raise Your Glass", or today's "Things I Hate"? So expect to see more of this kind of thing in the near future. And full credit to Stephen Colbert (and his writers) for the concept. Feel free to interview me anytime.

Now, on to my little riff here. Last Saturday, September 20th (a long time ago, I know), I was fortunate enough to be in attendance for a ridiculous concert at the Electric Factory, featuring none other than the Mars Volta. The last time this group played in Philly was at the TLA, a venue on South Street that sells out good shows immediately, without fail.

 Naturally, I was intensely excited to have a ticket to see this heavy, crazy, louder-than-I-usually-tolerate band, whose concerts had been talked up significantly to me by my roommate, Ian. He'd turned me on to their music, which I've been listening to religiously for almost the last year or so.

And their performance was everything I'd hoped it would be, featuring a handful of their best songs (all of which have impossible names to remember, like "Viscera Eyes" and "Meccamputecture"). I was enjoying the show extremely - I was in a very good place for about the first half of the show.

Then, all of a sudden, three fucking morons come smashing forward through the crowd, leaping and pushing and smashing and disturbing a whole section of concert-goers.

Moshers. Those motherfuckers. You can't yell at them to stop pushing you, because they're not going to do it. You can't push them back, because it just encourages them. But we were a full 100 feet from the stage, and these assholes had to stop directly next to me for their little piss-me-off fest. Well, it fucking worked, and I stormed outside in a fit of rage to inhale a cigarette.

Once I came back in and found my company, we watched from further to the rear, never getting back into the good spot we'd been in, both physically and mentally. A big fucking bummer it what it was.

To those people who ruined my Mars Volta experience, I say, grow the fuck up. Nobody pays $50 a ticket to have a bunch of lugheads push you all over the floor.

Off to work. Later.

The Deathlist

I've been debating over whether or not I can write about this on Conshohocken Freedom. Sure, I throw a little language around every now and then, but for the most part this blog is pretty acceptable on most levels, unless you're Amish or work for Microsoft. After today's post that'll probably no longer apply.

My mom had a particularly memorable friend when I was younger, a big cantankerous woman named Rennie. Rennie worked answering phones for the late Sears, Roebuck & Co., going in to work at some godawful hour in the morning. And since I was 11 or 12 years old or so, she made it a habit of calling our house on every morning when a person of particular fame or notoriety had passed away - inevitably getting the answering machine, and leaving the message for my mother in very plain terms: 

"Stanley Kubrick." *click*

She would only call for the ones that actually mattered, and every now and then she'd call and tell us about someone who really made us sad to see go. But her calls helped us deal with some otherwise unfortunate instances with something of a sense of humor.

Over the years, Rennie's early morning phone calls began to subside, but our interest in celebrity deaths did not. Quite the contrary, in fact.

The three of us formulated game of sorts... which of us specifically had the idea, I don't remember. The object of the game was to showcase our abilities of forecasting the death of any particular celebrity or public figure. So the three of us each made up our own list of five names, each belonging to news-worthy individuals that we thought were getting a little long on the tooth. And whichever of us happened to have someone on their list kick the bucket, then the other two would have to split the cost of a case of beer for the winner. And the only guideline is that we can't add a terminally ill person to our lists, nor can we add someone on death row, etc. No cheating, goddammit.

This game, of course, is ongoing. If someone on my list should die, I'd merely replace them with a new, bordering-on-death celebrity and eagerly cross my fingers. Indeed, since we started playing this game (several years ago), each of us have claimed a victory or two. I was the proud recipient of one case of beer after I read the news of Chief Supreme Court Justice William Rehnquist's passing a few years back. So you see, as long as people keep dying, we can keep playing this hilarious, somewhat unsettling game.

As long as we're on the topic, I'll share my list with you. It goes:

1. Mickey Rooney. This wrinkled old bag of crap is 88 years old, and according to Wikipedia, a Guinness World Record holder for the longest career in stage and screen. He certainly looks like he holds that record. He won one of those hokey Lifetime Achievement Awards at the Oscars... in 1983. He's probably crawling with diabetes. Seems like a good pick.

2. Dick Clark. This guy has been on my list for some time now, kinda lingering around the way Keith Richards will for the rest of time. He's had a reputation for looking much younger than he actually is - 79 years young today. This was based largely on his commanding TV presence. But then he had a stroke in 200

4, going until New Years 2007 without doing anything big. And that was one of the most terrifying telecasts I've ever been party to. For that performance, he'll stay on this list until he runs a marathon on live TV.

3. Dick Van Dyke. The chimney sweep from Mary Poppins, I think I picked him just because I was surprised he was still alive. He's 82 and I never hear about him in the news under any circumstances, even with his name signed up for google alerts. So we'll see about this one.

4. Dick Van Patten. This is basically continuing my trend of Dicks in the list. This guy was on Eight is Enough when I was too young to know what it was (maybe before I was born), and is most notable for playing the Abbot in Robin Hood: Men in Tights. He's 79 and a type 2 diabetic. I have faith in that diabetes. Even used to have Wilford Brimley on the list.

5. Amy Winehouse. My dark horse pick, chosen not due to her age (24) or propensity towards diabetes, but for her maniacal, uncontrollable social behavior and drug abuse. Winehouse, singer of popular children's songs like "Rehab", manages to land herself in the London tabloids on nearly a daily basis. She has emphysema, an appropriate pairing to the video of her smoking crack on Youtube. To be honest, I think she's the best pick of them all.

Now please bear in mind, I'm not a bad person. I don't want these people to die. I want them to live for as long as their bodies will carry them. But to be frank, the day some punk kid in the Philly suburbs writes a blog post about how he thinks I'm getting close to death, I'll know in my heart that I've finally made it. Hats off to these people for doing so.

And believe you me, when someone finally croaks, you'll be hearing about it right here.

Raise Your Glass: Richard Wright (1943-2008)

I have to take a moment now to make note of the passing of one Richard Wright, a British keyboardist and founding member of Pink Floyd. Wright played with this mind-blowing band through the years that saw them produce some of the most incredible music I've ever been a party to. Their most well-known album, Dark Side of the Moon, was released in 1973 and discovered by me around 2000. This album played an huge role in my musical upbringing, which from there spread through the entire Pink Floyd catalogue, up through Animals and down through The Wall. This eventually gave way to The Beatles, and The Doors, and Neil Young, and of course, the Grateful Dead. And the rest is history.

So raise your glass. This guy changed the world.

Reebok update

My good friends from college, George and Sarah, dropped by a few days ago as they were passing through Conshy. While they were here, Sarah remarked on the catfish swimming around the bottom, a catfish that you faithful readers may remember from a previous post. I told her about Reebok's history of savagery and cannibalism within the confines of these 65 gallons of water, of the scores of fish (well, maybe six or seven) that had been lain to rest within the fearless, gaping gullet of this vicious beast. And I pointed to a small red fish (and by small I mean about 2 1/2 inches long), noting that his size and slimness made him look like the perfect next victim. We all got a good laugh.

Well, not three days later, that poor little fucker was gone. And Ian discovered his absence at a relatively early stage of the digestion process, bringing my attention to it as I arrived home from work last night. In the photo shown here, you should note the large bulge, right around the belly area. As I snapped photos Reebok swam slowly and gleefully around the floor of the tank, at this point the largest fish of them all. He is the undisputed king of this little aquatic world and he continues to assert himself as such.

Just an update. I know you've all been wondering.

Mondo's Wedding

"You know, sometimes in life, you gotta marry people, bury 'em and have babies too."

-Chuck Hemcher

This weekend allowed me a rare day off from the restaurant, one on which I'd have no time whatsoever to relax.

This was the day of my co-worker, Monica (Mondo)'s wedding to her fiancee John, with myself and three co-workers - Bernadette, Erin and Shar Lee (pictured here) - on the guest list. The clouds were thick, and the ceremony was supposed to be outdoors, somewhere in Bucks County. So the four of us conglomerated together at work for a beer, and eventually got on the road.

The scenic side of Bucks County is a marvelous thing to behold. Thriving in foliage and rich in color, the drive up the turnpike and north on 611 made this 45-minute jaunt into the countryside seem a little more like a vacation. We checked in at the Plumsteadville Inn, which bore a charming exterior and a huge, completely vacant parking lot. We found our way inside, greeted by a vacant receptionist's desk, and wondered aloud (louder as the moments passed) if there was anyone home.

I tried calling the number on their business card, which made the phone sitting directly in front of me on the desk start ringing. After about 10 minutes of waiting, we found someone cleaning a room who came downstairs and took care of us. We walked up a staircase toward our room, and met with this eerily familiar (red rum...) hallway. All four of us caught the reference immediately - I wondered if they didn't leave it looking like that just as some kind of sick joke.

More on that crazy fucking place later. For now, we were running late, and these three girls got ready for this wedding at (relative) lightning speed. Once we were on the road, we were in line to arrive right on time for the 3:00 ceremony, which was apparently going to last only about ten minutes or so. But of course, our directions failed us, as did the signage, and we ended up driving in circles and calling people for directions. Eventually, finally, we found a sign for our destination - the Van Sant Airport in Erwinna, Pa. - and followed it through winding roads and into the depths of Bucks County. When we finally arrived, it was almost 3:30 but the ceremony hadn't quite started yet, according to the dude in the parking lot who directed us toward where we needed to go. We made it by about five minutes, and enjoyed a very brief ceremony (closer to five minutes) with no prolonging God talk. Better yet, my seat for the wedding itself and for the reception were one and the same. We had beers in front of us the whole ceremony. It was glorious.

So we spent the next five hours or so eating (briefly) and drinking (more than we ate) and even dancing. Bern (pictured center) got me on my feet for a couple of slow songs, and I got my extra kick of motivation when Otis Day's "Shout" came on.

Afterwards, we traveled deeper into the wild toward a place called the Indian Rock Inn, apparently another B&B, like the Shining place where we'd dropped our stuff earlier but decidedly less creepy. The bar was small, and there was one middle-aged woman behind the bar with no help, twisting off bottlecaps with her bare fucking hands and getting visibly more irritated with each person in wedding clothes who walked through the door. Once things settled down a little and everyone had their first round, I asked about food, which she said wasn't available at that hour (9:00 on a Saturday). But then food started coming out for people at cocktail tables, and Bern, sensing my growing rage within, asked the woman who brought their food out, who was happy to give us a menu, saying they'd kept the kitchen open late because they knew we were coming. Let this be a note to any large group of people going to a restaurant: call ahead. And do it because cool things like kitchens staying open late can happen with enough notice, and the staff isn't pissed off at being jumped by a huge group of people all wanting drinks at the same time.

I got wings (phenomenal) and quail, which I hadn't eaten in something like ten years. It wasn't what I remembered it to be, thanks mostly to an overpowering honey glaze and slightly tougher meat. Still, it goes down as one of the greatest late night (as in the last thing the kitchen will be doing all night) meals I've ever enjoyed.

Back to the Plumsteadville Inn. This place was really fucking weird, as I've already showed above with the photo of the hallway. Let's call that Exhibit A. Moving on from there...

Exhibit B: The television. As you can see in this picture, the grainy, jumpy picture on the screen of this awfully small (no more than 13") television is provided by none other than an old-fashioned, god-fearing antenna. If I'm not mistaken, these things won't even work about six months from now. We dug deeper into this mystery while we were drinking at the Indian Rock Inn, where the bartender (who, I should mention, did improve her demeanor considerably once everyone had a drink and she realized how much money she was making) informed us that Comcast cable is not available in these here parts. Verizon FIOS is available about three miles away, but that's three miles away. So satellite is the only way to go, and apparently the Plumsteadville Inn had not utilized this option.
I just had to mention this because I haven't used an antenna to get TV reception in probably ten years. And the only thing it picked up was Chris Wallace interviewing the "master" political strategist Karl Rove on FOX, which made me want to drink gasoline.

Exhibit C: The beds. We had originally planned to have three occupants - Bern, Shar and myself. So twin beds, rather than a larger bed and a cot, made more sense for fairness's sake. Then we talked Erin into staying, so we figured we could stash two of us on each of the "twin beds" we'd been promised.
This turned out to be just barely possible. These were comfortable beds but were hardly more than two feet wide. Granted, we probably shouldn't have expected for four people to be comfortable in one room, but jeez, those beds were small.

Exhibit D: The closet. This is easily the most convenient place to get murdered that I've ever seen. This closet, mere feet from Exhibit C, reached back a good five feet and enjoyed enough room to store an entire wardrobe. It stayed dark no matter how light the room was, because the light switch for this particular closet was, well, a dead end. And beyond this big, creepy closet, there was a second closet about half its size (much less creepy, though) in the bathroom, as well as a giant bureau with about ten drawers. Whoever thought all this was necessary is a complete lunatic.

Exhibit E: The sink. What the fuck. Look at this goddamn thing. I can understand that this place might be going for the "charming" or "antiquated" effect. Fine. But there was a point in time when people realized that they can make their water pour not just hot or cold, independent of each other (as was the case with this ridiculous device). The sinks we have today can make all kinds of water - warm, tepid, cool, you name it.
These devices make our lives much easier, and allow us to wash our hands comfortably, rather than alternating from uncomfortably cold to blisteringly hot.
There's a point at which we need to embrace change for its most basic reason - intelligence. But whoever had the great idea of leaving this stupid sink installed is probably not too big on the whole "intelligence" thing.
If the bar had been open at any point during our visit, I might have had better things to say, because the bar looked like a very cool place to throw some back. Alas...

All in all, a fun way to spend the bulk of the weekend. Congratulations to Mon & John, and thanks to them for giving me something to write about.

America in 100 Days

Pretty sweet, don't you think? Thanks to Joey's deep Phi Sigma Kappa roots, his good friend and fraternity brother Eric Perinotti (also my friend, as confirmed by Facebook) whipped up this pretty little icon for our trip. Hats off to him for being the man.

The plan for our trip west has evolved considerably since we conceived the idea (which you can read more about here). We've altered our trip route to include a few scenic Florida destinations, including Key West and Pensacola. We've purchased a domain name (www.americain100days.com) and two years of web hosting, to develop as a medium with which to document every step of this great adventure (and possibly a way to help finance it). And now we've got this logo.

Good start. Still eight and a half months to go.

Cable News

One thing I look forward to every Christmas (or Jimmy Buffett day, as I prefer to call it) is the 24-hr marathon of "A Christmas Story" on...I'm gonna say TBS. Whatever network it is, the movie plays from like 10 at night on Christmas Eve, for a full 24 hours. As soon as the movie ends, it plays it again. It's one of the most pleasant parts of the holiday, a holiday meant to bring families and loved ones together and so on. A very warm, enriching experience.

Today is not Christmas. Today is 9/11. And right on cue, I turned on the TV this morning to see the all-too-familiar spectacle of the two main towers of the World Trade Center, aflame, spewing billows of black smoke into the Manhattan skyline. Why, might you ask, would that be on TV?

Because MSNBC, the sensitive empathizers that they are, decides every year that just one day of 9/11/2001 wasn't enough. No, and they didn't get enough scared people to listen to them go on and on about it in the months after it happened, either. No sir.

In lieu of actual news coverage this morning, and every 9/11, they replay the tape of their live coverage from the morning of 9/11/2001. They match it up to real time, and press play, and let us all sit here and remember how fucked up that morning was.

Guess what? I'm pretty fucking sure I remember without you assholes making a morning of TV out of it again. Even stupid, shitty Fox News doesn't take it as far as MSNBC. All Fox News is doing is showing video of George W. Bush at memorials to mark the occasion.

What's probably going on is a little case of 9/11 envy. The advent of Fox News came on 9/11/2001, when they realized their purpose: to talk about 9/11 endlessly. Show footage of frightening Muslim radicals, tell people they've got antharax in their mailbox and, eventually, nestle the terror alert snugly next to the time of day and stock ticker.

MSNBC, Fox News and CNN - they're all full of shit, and they all want your attention so they can fill your head with their opinions, and they'll scare the shit out of you if that's what it takes to get you to watch them. Or, on the right day, they'll shamelessly turn a national tragedy into a push for ratings. Whoever came up with that idea deserves a firm kick to the groin.

Drink This Beer: Dogfish Head Punkin Ale

Going along with my theme of shorter, more frequent blog posts, it makes sense for me to bring to your attention any particular strokes of brilliance in, say, movie-making (such as in my last post) or other regular parts of my lifestyle - such as, in this case, beer.

This is Dogfish Head, a beer brewed out of Rehobeth Beach, Delaware - the least famous of all 50 states, including South Dakota. Dogfish Head is probably best known for their IPA - specifically, their 60-Minute and 90-Minute IPA's, both of which will set the wallet back a pretty penny but make up for it and more on the palate. And for those of you who don't know (including me, until just now when I looked it up on Wikipedia), the 60-Minute and 90-Minute monikers are based on the length of time during which the wort is boiled, and as the time is extended, the hops being added to the wort lend more flavor to the final product. Makes sense.
This batch is one I'd never seen before the other day, when I sauntered into A. Piermani & Sons (my friendly local beer distributor) and saw this delicious, unique box sitting unassumingly on the shelf. It had no price tag, but shit, this is September - and to my knowledge, just about as early as you can hope to find a case of Pumpkin or Octoberfest beer on the shelves. Granted, I had enjoyed a case of delicious Sam Adams Octoberfest the weekend prior. But Sam Adams and a small craft brewery like Dogfish Head are two very different things. After all, Sam Adams is the largest American-owned brewery in the country (with Yuengling a close second).
This was not a cheap case, as I should have guessed by the absence of a price tag on the side. That is not a point that I allow to play into my decision-making process, however, when I shop at Piermani's. I live a fairly frugal life, rarely tossing any money away on buying new electronics, expensive clothes, etc. I have more t-shirts than I'll ever need, most of which are relics from college. But I love beer. And thus far, I've never balked at a beer purchase unless it's unreasonably expensive - as in over $50 or so.
This case came to $46.75. That's almost two dollars a bottle. And handing over my debit card, I remembered the only other time I'd paid that much for beer: about two months ago, when I bought a case of Weyerbacher Merry Monk's, a 9% ABV belgian wheat beer that took me more than three weeks to finish.
This one won't take so long. It's 7% ABV, a deep amber color with a fresh, roasty malt flavor, a reminder of Autumn on the way. It's stronger (smarter) than your average beer, but very well balanced - unlike the far-too-overwhelming flavor of the Merry Monk. It bears a strong resemblance to the Sam Adams Octoberfest, but with a richer flavor and obviously more alcohol.
Only problem is, you're gonna have to be within spitting distance of this small Delaware brewery in order to get your hands on it. If you can, and you've got nearly fifty dollars to spare, don't hesitate for a second.

UPDATE: Just stumbled across a good mainstream guide to the Philly beer scene. Check it out here.

Movie Recommendation -The King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters

Okay. It's been more than two weeks since my last real, solid hunk of time (and inspiration) that would bring me to write a good blog post. I like to get into detail, and I get carried away with writing when I can actually get started. So this will be the first of what should hopefully be many smaller posts in the future, to fill these long, unnecessary voids between thoughts and happenings in my life and Conshohocken.

Today I'd like to tell you about a hilarious movie that I viewed recently, a documentary called "The King of Kong." It follows a long-standing rivalry between a couple of hilarious, and more importantly, real people regarding the all-time high score in arcade Donkey Kong. This movie contains absolutely no third-person narration, only interviews with all the ridiculous characters who take part in this ridiculous story. I call them "characters" and a "story" because they're literally right out of a comic book. Every single person in this movie, save the "challenger" Steve Wiebe, comes off as either a super-eccentric or just a straight-up lunatic. And they're all video game nerds, which makes them even funnier.

Watchable documentaries are few and far between, and even fewer of them are laugh-out-loud hilarious. This one manages a rare notch in both categories. And it's only 90 minutes long or so, which means you can watch it late at night and hopefully stay awake through the whole thing.

That's all for now. I am at work, after all. Look forward to a good post about visitors from New York, coming soon.

The Great Conshohocken Fire of 2008

About 5:15 yesterday afternoon, I was home relaxing on the couch after a brainbusting day at my P.R. company. I had the evening off, and was planning on a drive up to Bensalem for the standard weekly visit to Joey & Sarah's house. My good friend Jon, who works just a stone's throw from my house, had dropped by for a post-workday beverage on his way home, and at 5:15, he was on his way out the door, with me right on his heels.

Jon walks out the door, and fifteen seconds later, pops his head back in saying, "Hey Tom, you see what's going on out back? You got a big fuckin' fire behind your house."

Sure enough, I run outside, and there's a big fuckin' fire behind my house (pictured right). From my vantage point, on 8th Avenue, it looked as though the fire was coming from Hector Street, about four blocks away...and what would be almost exactly the location of my friend Ryan's house, whose name has been mentioned in these pages before. 

Immediately, I was on the horn calling Ryan to make sure that he was okay, that he was aware of a big fuckin' fire in Conshohocken and whether he could verify whether or not it was emanating from his house.

He answered, said he was fine but was in his car on the way back to his house - was maybe two minutes away, and could see a big fuckin' cloud of smoke coming up from the ground in the general direction of his house, and didn't know if his house was safe or not. He'd call me as soon as he knew.

Immediately, my mind flashed back to senior year at college, when after a post-bar keg party at my friend Kelsey's house, the woodstove caught fire and burned the entire house beyond repair, destroying nearly every singular possession of kelsey, as well as those of his three roommates. It was a terrible situation, but one in which nobody got hurt, and kelsey and his roommates were flooded with donations, both from individuals and from random "fundraisers" (i.e. a keg party with a ten-dollar entry fee, with proceeds going to the four unlucky residents). Quite a situation, one that I'd prefer not to see happen to anyone whom I care about - or don't, for that matter.

Within a moment, Ryan had called me back and told me it wasn't his house, but this was indeed a fuckin' fire and a half. He was safe, everything was fine but the parking from his end. 

It seemed that a fire had broken out at a nearby construction site, where some new riverfront property was being built. The building collapsed, and in doing so it ignited a neighboring building, a condominium complex. This building, as I learned afterwards, was occupied and evacuated very quickly. Unfortunately, given the time of day when this incident occurred, a fair amount of homeowners were in transit from work and were unable to enter their condos upon arrival. And a very sad result of this was that many pets were lost in this fire - how many exactly, I have no idea. 

Beyond that, the fire - an eight-alarm fire - destroyed nearly 200 condos and displaced more than 370 people (according to 6abc.com), a number of whom were at my restaurant later that evening, "...trying to get their lives back together," according to my boss, Chuckie.

But thankfully, no humans were killed, and the last time I heard, the only injury was a minor smoke inhalation. But wow, what a spectacle to have seen in person - let alone on television, which showed a non-stop video feed from an encircling helicopter that looked like hell had spilt over. 

So count your blessings. Nothing I have is permanent, nothing I am is permanent. And in a world in transit, an ever-changing world full of wonder and mayhem, we should all feel fortunate to have all that we do.

I counted mine, over a flawless, home-cooked dinner with people I love.

Vacation Weekend, pt. 2

Sorry, sorry. I'm a busy guy. What do you think I do, sit around writing blogs all day?
Anyway, part 2 of my super fun vacation weekend takes us to the 26th and 27th of July, Saturday and Sunday. Remember, this weekend was my summer break from work, in lieu of the otherwise standard trip to Ohio for Gratefulfest that I've ruled out for this year. Hence, I stayed around home and did fun stuff all weekend.

Saturday brought me over to my friend and fraternity brother Mark Armstrong's house, who lives just over the bridge in West Conshohocken. I picked him up along with his younger brother Tom, and Tom's girlfriend, whose name eludes me at this stage in the game. And the four of us, accompanied by melodious tunes from Jerry Garcia's guitar, made the treacherous drive down 76 to Citizens Bank Park for a good ol' Phightin' Phils game. This was an afternoon game, starting at 4:05 against the Atlanta Braves, giving us enough time (but not too much time) to spend preparing ourselves in the K Lot. There, after buying some of the last standing room tickets available (at about 1:15) we met up with a handful of old friends, many from my fraternity at school, Phi Mu Delta, which we got closed down for three years thanks to our unquenchable thirst for sweet, sweet Mama Alcohol.
We drank, ate food courtesy of my big (frat) brother Erik's girlfriend Karen's very friendly parents, played buckets, and drank some more before oozing our way through the gates.
I was looking forward to this game particularly for the fact that Cole Hamels was starting. Hamels was, at the beginning of the year, considered to be the Phils' ace, though nowadays it's looking more and more like Jamie Moyer is...but anyhow, this was the first time I'd be seeing Hamels pitch in person. And unlike at the beginning of most games, my stomach was completely full of hot dogs and a hamburger from the parking lot. So I didn't waste my usual $15 or so on food that, inevitably, comes from the first vendor I see rather than walking all the way to Chickie's & Pete's or something. There are good places to get food in Citizens Bank, but I'm an impatient man, and usually I'll settle for whatever makes me walk the least.
Anyway, we were standing room only, so we got a spot out in left center field, pretty close to Harry the K's, which wasn't so bad thanks to the 'sauce'. The Phils broke out a 3-0 lead after a few innings, but without a whole lot of commotion. It wasn't really the most exhilarating game I'd ever seen, but at least we were winning.
All that changed in the top of the 4th, as Hamels began to fall apart. Baserunner after baserunner got on and came across, and after a gut-wrenchingly long inning, Cole had been pulled and the Phils were down 9-3. It was so bad that a few people we'd come with took off completely, before the game was even halfway through.
Not me, motherfucker. I stayed, and for what turned out to be a really good reason. Once the bottom of the 5th rolled around, the Phils' bats exploded for a 7-run inning capped by a 3-run home run by...shit, Greg Dobbs, maybe? I don't remember, to be honest. But it made for a great scoreboard shot.

Stupid Braves.
Anyway, the Phils won by that same score, and we piled into the car and drove back to Erik's house to continue drinking. And we did, and caught up with people we hadn't seen for a long time, and so on, and so forth. Granted, I'd been drinking all day, but with my health and safety in mind - always following the drink-per-hour rule. Once I started to feel like I might be approaching that .08 level, I hopped into the car and called it a night, bearing in mind that I had to be up relatively early the next day.

To go here. A handful of my coworkers and I showed up at our restaurant bright and early at 10 am, and took a leisurely drive up the Northeast Extension to Dorney Park & Wildwater Kingdom in Allentown. Only about an hour drive, during which I discussed politics and Socrates with our busboy, Kevin, while his girlfriend sat quietly in the backseat, no doubt bored out of her skull.

When we arrived there were about eight of us or something, and we slowly made our way into the park. This place, let me tell you, this place was a stark reminder of America as a melting pot of cultures and races. Never in recent memory have I seen such a mix of white people, black people, Indian people, Asian people, Hispanic people, everybody but albinos. I didn't see one albino, or for that matter, one Amish person the whole time I was there. Quite an eye-opener, on one level or another. 

Well, we sat down on a ride, and I got prepared to clench my insides and hope for the best. But alas, before the ride took off, the straps popped open and voice came over the loudspeaker saying, "Sorry, we have to shut down the ride for the weather." Sure enough, it had begun raining steadily, to the point that within minutes the clouds were really letting loose, and we retreated into a tacky joint that was trying to be a sports restaurant. The food was pretty terrible and equally overpriced, but very filling, and took long enough for us to wait out the storm and come outside to improving skies.

We hit a few rides, the ones that opened first - a sort of tilt-a-whirl thing, and then the Dominator, which brought us up about 300-400 feet and dropped us into a brief state of weightlessness. Pretty cool, as your stomach isn't full of nachos and cheeseburger. Mine was, which made the ride considerably less fun.

Then came the demon hellride, Voodoo. It's apparently one of their newer roller coasters, this abominable thing shaped kind of like a U with a really long bottom part. We started in the middle, with out legs dangling out beneath us, and after a "3...2...1" countdown over the speaker, we were violently shot backwards at, immediately, no less than 50 mph up one side of the ride. It bent us forward, while still travelling backward, and took us up a good 125 feet in the air so that we could stare helplessly at the ground beneath us before shooting us forward to do the same thing on the other end. Only on the other end, it fucking twisted us around in loops to further add to the nausea. It did this three times, but the last time we got held facing toward the ground, those motherfuckers made it pause for a split second at the top, so that our bodies slumped against our chest coverings and we all really felt like we were going to die. It was a goddamn nightmare. This ride was the kind of thing that someone who enjoys roller coasters would probably love. But fuck you if you're one of those people. I was not amused in any way, shape or form. It reminded me of why I never go to see horror movies: if I'm gonna be paying $10 for a ticket, and $12 for soda and popcorn, and not be able to drink alcohol, then I better be able to have a really good, amusing time, filled with laughs and enjoyment aplenty. I have a very stressful life and I don't see the appeal in paying money to enter into a private environment, only to get freaked out and come close to an anxiety attack. Fuck horror movies, and fuck roller coasters. It'd been a long time since my last visit to a theme park, and guess what? I don't enjoy roller coasters on any level, period, and I felt like a real asshole for paying 40 fucking dollars to ride them.

Thankfully, I was with a fun little group of people, all of whom were committed to having a good time. So we kinda seperated into three or four groups, and mine made our way into the water park. This was my kind of park, frought with leisurely attractions like a pool that people floated along underneath waterfalls and stuff. This part was doubtlessly more fun, but the lines were brutally long, and I couldn't escape the feeling that I was swimming in half super-chlorinated water, half child urine.

And at 5:00, I jumped into my car and drove home to call it a weekend. Definately a nice three days off, and since then I've been right back into the fray, working like a bee to save up money so that Joey and Sarah and I can make up for the fact that this year, I just don't get to have a vacation. Next year, however, will be very, very different.

Vacation Weekend, pt. 1

I've been out of school for more than a year now, always having been fully aware that the first year out would be one of the roughest. Since August, excluding a short three-week period between restaurant jobs over the winter, I've been on a seven-day-per week work schedule, splitting the time between whichever restaurant it is at which I happen to be working, and a "professional" endeavor - first an internship with a tourism magazine, and now as an associate at a public relations company. It's a lot of work, and my days off are few and far between. This past weekend was the exception, as I took off Friday through Sunday for a super fun vacation at home. While I might have liked to have gotten a little rest, the weekend was jam-packed with exciting activities that I simply couldn't resist. Let's start with Friday.

After a leisurely afternoon highlighted by a rigorous lawn-mowing, I hopped into the car and headed down to Penn's Landing for a show at the Festival Pier. I had company, my buddy Ryan and the infamous Jennie Doyle, as well as one of Ryan's roommates. This was just my second visit to the Festival Pier, my first being a Phil Lesh and Levon Helms show about a month, month and a half ago. I warned my passengers that my last visit, I parked at an incredibly lucky metered spot at the front of the venue, and that getting parking would probably not be so easy this time.
Lo and flippin' behold, the second-to-last metered spot was breathtakingly unoccupied. I popped ol' Cassidy into the spot and got change for the meter across the street at a gas station, and we made our way in.
This was a show I was looking forward to in that I knew very little about what kind of experience would bloom. Umphrey's McGee (left) and Sound Tribe Sector 9 were playing, two bands who draw crowds similar to my usual fellow audience members at, say, Dark Star Orchestra shows or Bob Weir & Ratdog shows. The difference was that I'd only seen Umphrey's perform live once before, and never seen Sound Tribe. So I was largely going in blind, and very excited about what might transpire.
Umphrey's opened, and they rocked. Some extremely funky, electronic jams came vibrating forth from the stage, the bass and drums as loud as, and probably louder than, any noise code could possibly allow. I got a spot relatively close and felt the ground hum loudly beneath me with every beat.
They played long, energetic jams, with the only exception being the only song I could name - a cover of the Beatles' "Dear Prudence". And their single-set performance went a full ninety minutes, all of us fully aware that they had to save some energy for a late night performance at the TLA a few hours afterwards. If they were holding anything back, I wouldn't have known it, because this was as good as I could have hoped for.

Sound Tribe Sector 9 (right) know how to throw it down, and I know this for a fact, thanks to a somewhat sizable collection of their music available for free on the Internet Music Archive. They're from Atlanta, and also have a funky, electronic thing going on, similar to what you might hear at a Disco Biscuits concert (but minus a considerable portion of the annoying Bisco crowds). I'd gotten my hands on their New Year's 2004 show and played the hell out of it - some really awesome music that was really working the audience. My anticipation was very high for these guys.
And as I expected, I wasn't disappointed. The band put on a smooth, bass-driven performance with an outstanding light show. The crowd clearly not a sellout, and it seemed like the people who were there were the ones that really, really wanted to be there. Everyone danced as hard as I did, and everyone got along extremely well. There was a sense of harmony in the audience, broken only briefly when a miscreant hippie went sprinting through the crowd, followed quickly by a security guard. Ryan summarized it well when he said, "Wow, that guy really didn't want to get caught."
My only complaints included the brevity of the second show. Sound Tribe played one set and only one set, which lasted a maximum of ninety minutes. Second, while there are only a handful of song I'd know if I heard them, well, they didn't play any of those. And the vendors at Festival Pier are as expensive as any other place, only with a beer selection about as limited as a carnival.
Otherwise, I was smiling start to finish. If you go to this venue, here's some advice: look for metered parking in front of the venue, and if it's not available, try parking at Dave & Buster's. If I remember correctly it was about $8 compared to $20 at the venue itself, though I don't know if that's okay with the Dave & Buster's people. Somebody, try it and tell me what happens.
And as usual, have your drinks before you go in, rather than buying them inside. While paying $6 for an MGD pounder is a little better than at a Phils game, it still leaves a shitty taste in your mouth (as does the beer).

And look at that, it's 4:15 and time for me to get ready for work again. I'll get into Saturday and Sunday's thrilling activities in my next post, coming tomorrow afternoon.

Reebok Attacks

Monday rolls along, and I put in a day at the office. Afterwards, my good friend John Clay ambled his way over to my place for a nice night of beer drinking and Home Run Derby watching. Clay was kind enough to bring over a case of Rolling Rock bottles, unaware of the fact that I'd gone and purchased a case of Leinenkugel's Sunset Wheat. The two cases had to share what limited space I had in my fridge, and Clay and I commenced our consumption.
After a while, after what seemed like hours worth of nonsensical crap playing on the television before they let the Derby begin - complete with a fucking 3 Doors Down performance (blecch) - the competition began, and our boy Chase Utley did not put on his best showing and was quickly eliminated.
Not long afterwards, another friend of mine from college, Ryan Stauffer, walked in the front door. Ryan lives just blocks away from me here in Conshohocken, and doesn't go out much during the week as he has a real-person job every day. But he dropped in just at the right time, just in time to see Josh Hamilton of the Rangers go on a spree of homers. The guy hit 28 in the first round, smashing Bobby Abreu's former record of 24. Quite an entertaining show, but nothing compared to what came next.

This, on the left, is Reebok. Reebok is one of more than ten assorted fish that inhabit our living room fish tank. He's a catfish, one that grows very large in the wild (upwards of 100 pounds), and our most expensive fish at purchase time ($50, split between me and my roommate Dave).
Reebok, as you may notice, has another fish sticking out of his mouth in this photo. This was brought to my attention by Ryan, who sat not three feet away from the tank and noticed a big commotion all of a sudden. We get up to look, and the little motherfucker has another fish crammed into his mouth, its head sticking out, its gills still moving and it struggling to free itself from Reebok's gaping jaws. Every now and then it would make a concerted effort to swim free, at which time Reebok would simply bash it against the wall or the floor to shove it further into his mouth.

Before long, a few other fish were starting to throw themselves into the fray. This orange guy pictured here is a Parrot Fish (referred to here as a Habok Fish), which generally doesn't bother Reebok for any reason, as Reebok is usually a bottom feeder and the two don't cross paths too frequently. Here, you'll notice the Habok smashing itself against the head of the half-swallowed fish, either as a show of support for Reebok, as a jealous attempt to get in on the kill (which was not dead, mind you), or a show of protest against Reebok and his fucking fierce domination of our fish tank and everyone inside.

Reebok's appetite for blood has been whetted in recent weeks, when either Ian or Dave brought home two very small fish, both of which looked slightly similar to tiny sharks. One day, we come downstairs and one of them is missing. Reebok, in the meanwhile, is completely engorged, his belly fatter than it's ever been, and sticking out of his mouth is the tailfin of one of those baby sharks, which he was still in the process of swallowing whole and digesting. And the very next day, the other baby shark is gone too, swallowed whole by Reebok, whose belly was so fat that I thought he was going to die. He hadn't even pooped the first one out, and he had already swallowed the second.

But until today, we'd always assumed that Reebok, the timid bottom-feeder who danced in the water for us and who looked too cute to harm another fish, had just eaten those baby sharks after they were already dead. We didn't think him capable of murder.
But here he was, with a live fish in his jaws for maybe as long as 15 minutes while it struggled for its life. And in one grand, climactic moment, the captive fish made one last-ditch effort to break free, and almost made it out. But Reebok flailed, fought, and smashed that little guy against something or just snapped its neck in his mouth. The captive fish went motionless, and Reebok released him just momentarily, allowing its lifeless body to float in front of him for a split second while he repositioned himself, and clamped down on it again, this time onto its head first. He shimmied the fish down its throat, with just the tiniest bit of tail fin protruding from his mouth (as you can barely see on the lefthand side), before swallowing the entire creature altogether.

After his meal, Reebok settled quietly into the corner of the tank, occasionally swiming vertically in place in, I assume, an attempt to get the fish down inside him and the digestion process started. As was the case when we found him after his last engorging, his stomach was the size of a raquetball (see photo on right), thanks to his snake-like devouring of one of his fellow fish. But now we know that, behind that adorable, playful facade that our dear Reebok puts on for most people, he's a fucking cold-hearted killer. He's got a taste for blood, and he's not going to tolerate that fish food crap any longer. It's only a matter of time before he preys on his next victim, and now he knows how to do it himself, rather than just sitting idly by and waiting for something to die naturally.
Beware. Or else Reebok'll fuckin kill you.

Food Review: Sarah Lovelace (5 out of 5)

Food: Whatever she feels like cooking
Location: A cozy, 2-bedroom apartment in Bensalem
Phone: Get it yourself
Date visited: Many, many different dates
Rating: 5 out of 5


In rating dining establishments on this blog (and on Citysearch before I started writing here), I have been setting aside the 5-star rating for a place that has really worked for it. I wanted so badly to walk into John's Roast Pork and find the perfect cheesesteak, but alas, I will not give credit where it is not due, and it has not yet been due at any restaurant that I've visited.
So you can imagine the explosion inside my head yesterday when I realized, as I sat paralyzed by the latest culinary masterpiece that had eminated from Sarah Lovelace's kitchen of wonders, that I had found that 5-star dining establishment that I'd been searching for.

Sarah came into my life thanks to Joey Salvucci, my roommate from freshman year in college and very good friend (although his 1400 SAT score pales and shrinks like a flaccid penis next to my 1410). The two of them (both pictured above, by the way) started dating at the beginning of our senior year, when they conveniently lived directly next door to each other (and next to Keller's, the beer distributor). Joey had a Sam's Club membership, and fuckin' milked it for all it was worth, lining his fridge and freezer with meats, cheeses and various other delicious foods, until it could hold no more. So the two of them would cook, cook, cook and honed their hands in the kitchen.
Nowadays, the two of them live together in Bensalem, having moved there just a month ago or so from Mt. Holly, NJ. As of just recently, both of them work at the same financial company, which is funny because Sarah just got her job and will be making more money than Joey. The three of us comprise the road trip team for next year (see corresponding post), an idea that developed gradually over this past Democratic primary season, which was the impetus for countless Tuesday evening drives to Joey & Sarah's over the last year.
And during these visits, Sarah would selflessly take to the kitchen and cook up these masterful concoctions, generally corresponding with a state that was holding its primary on the day of each of my particular visits. Idaho's primary dinner was highlighted by potatoes, Iowa's by corn, and so forth. It was a brilliant way to enjoy the ever-stressful primary season, and the meals were always outrageous in portion and divine in taste. Her many masterpieces have included chicken parmesan over pasta, appetizer night (consisting of meatballs, stuffed mushrooms, shrimp and much more), or last night's dinner, quite possibly one of the most satisfying of my entire life.
I arrived at Joey's on the early side, just before 5:00 after working lunch at my restaurant. Usually, I'd have taken the easy route and chowed down on salad, chili and pork sandwiches during my shift, all of which I make or retrieve for myself and therefore don't have to pay for, as the rules go. But I held on, curbing my appetite for the evening ahead next to Sarah's kitchen.
After a smoke and a few rounds of drinks (Rolling Rocks and various shots), Sarah began the barrage with a frying pan adorned with a birthday cake-sized slice of Brie and a box of "entertainment crackers," which was gone almost as soon as she put it in front of us. After I declined a salad, I was instead brought roughly 1/3 a head of lettuce, intact, drizzled with ranch dressing and surrounded by croutons. And the main course, the glorious climax, featured steamed broccoli, creamy mashed potatoes and two large hunks of some of the best homemade meatloaf I've ever had. I felt my stomach expanding and my pace slowing, but it was too good not to finish. I shoveled every bite into my gaping mouth (besides the broccoli - no thanks), and proceeded to lay practically comatose in the living room for the next hour.
This is what Sarah does every time I visit (though yesterday's dinner was among the best she's ever made), and soon we'll all be living together in Portland, Oregon. She warned me that I will get very fat, which I look forward to as much as anything else in the world.
So hat's off to Sarah Lovelace, the culinary supergenius whose home is the best place I know of to eat an amazing, overfilling meal.

My Top 5 Dumb Movies

Happy New Month, folks, and happy 3/4 of a birthday to me. What got me thinking about this is a mystery to me, but it's something that everyone should be somewhat well-versed in. There are days when you have time off and you want to watch a good movie, but then paying attention to the movie turns into more of an ordeal than whatever it is you have a day off from. I know the feeling well, and it's been the downfall of many a movie-watching venture in my day (such as 2001: A Space Odyssey, of which I own my copy and someone else's and still have never sat through the whole thing).
So it's very important, for those days when your brain is only functioning at about 25-50%, to have a backlog of really stupid movies that you can indulge in. They won't hurt your brain, they won't lose your attention, and some of them are extremely entertaining. Though I must caution you that without smoking at least a little pot before watching, they may not quite have the desired effect. Here are a few of my own favorites.

#5: Not Another Teen Movie. I was first a party to this one during Team Sunday, a weekly ritual in my fraternity house during which seven or eight people would all buck up to buy a bag of pot, smoke the whole thing together in one sitting, and watch something funny on TV, usually Adult Swim or something similar. As is the case with the Scary Movie films, and Epic Movie, and Date Movie, and whatever else, this film makes references to as many popular movies that fall into the category which it happens to be ripping on (in this case, teen movies), and does so in hilarious, ridiculous fashion.
Absolutely everything in this movie is exaggerated to the hilt, with a football coach who spouts the word 'goddammit' three times per sentence, an "ugly girl" who's actually just a really hot girl disguised beneath glasses and a ponytail, and a "token black guy" who literally kicks another black guy out of a party because he's supposed to be the only black guy there. My first time watching this movie saw me laughing more than I'd laughed in a good while. But I reiterate, this one especially needs an accompanying bag of weed, or else it might be a little over the top.

4: Pootie Tang. Welcome to the first time I saw Wanda Sykes that didn't make me want to shoot her in the face. This one was a real surprise, which my current roommates Ian and Dave popped in for me during college, before I'd moved in with them. It tells the story of a boy whose romantic exploits with women began at a very young age, as evidenced by the grown woman throwing his tricycle out of her window in a fit of emotion. Pootie Tang is somewhat of a real-life superhero, who walks among us and speaks his own language ("Baby, I'm gonna sine your pitty on the runny kine"), but serves as the ideal role model for kids for some reason, and kicks people's asses with his magical belt. The story is about how his love for skanks got him into quite a pickle, and he has to crawl his way back to popular credibility. Very funny, with lots of good catch phrases ("Wa-da-tah").
Again, do not watch this movie sober, or you'll probably fucking hate it.

3. Idiocracy. This one came out relatively recently, and I discovered it on Cinemax one evening at home. It's a Mike Judge movie, whose hilarious career has included Beavis & Butthead, King of the Hill and Office Space, all winners in my book. This film, which stars Luke Wilson and that stupid goddamn Maya Rudolph from SNL (whose presence was similar to Wanda Sykes in Pootie Tang - surprisingly tolerable) as two test subjects for an Army experiment. These two present-day saps are loaded up into cryogenic freezing pods for what was supposed to be a year, but due to an embarrassing pimping scandal, end up frozen for a full 500 years. And while they're frozen, human civilization becomes overwhelmed by rednecks and white trash who reproduce at frightening rates, driving down the average IQ further and further until, by the year 2505, the world is populated entirely by idiots.
This one has been on On Demand for a few weeks now, and I think I've been a party to it about ten times. Trust me, it's getting a little stale. But the first several times watching provided quite a bucketful of laughs, even though I wouldn't be surprised if the movie's predictions for our future were dead on. I heard that one of the most popular new names for American girls (this is no lie) is Nevaeh, which is the word "heaven" spelled backwards. If there are assholes doing that kind of shit today, then having names like Tylenol and Velveeta 500 years from now doesn't sound so far-fetched.
*Side note: Please join me in my quest to tell every Nevaeh I ever meet that their name is the dumbest thing I've ever heard.

2. Dirty Work. Norm Macdonald at his finest, and Artie Lange at his usual, in one of the funniest, most poorly-acted movies I know. These two are best friends, as they've been since they were kids, and they "don't take no crap from nobody," as central-character Pops remarks. They've always had clever ways of getting back at people for messing with them, and when Pops needs $50K for a heart transplant, they turn their vengeance skills into a business in order to save his life.
Shit, I just pretty much told you the whole movie. But look for Norm Macdonald's steel-toed wit to spruce up many an otherwise normal scene, especially his reaction to treatment from fellow prisoners during a brief visit to jail. And don't miss the hilarious screaming and sound effects during the fish-spreading scene.

1. Dumb and Dumber. You might have started reading this list and thought, "What a stupid article. I bet you he puts Dumb and Dumber as #1." Well, fuck you, you were right. But while this may be a common, almost cliched choice for tops in this category, I would argue first: Fuck you, I've never heard of a top 5 dumb movies list before, and second: This is almost too brilliant of a movie to even allow on this list. The only reason I'm letting myself get away with it is that the focus of the movie is on stupidity itself, making it that much more appropriate.
This movie helped to launch the career of one of Hollywood's biggest comedy stars in Jim Carrey, and I would imagine didn't hurt Jeff Daniels's career. Jim Carrey's character was maniacally funny in this film, if not one of the funniest in any movie. The movie produced an endless array of catch phrases, some of which I employ every single day of my life ("There ya go," or "Big Gulps, eh? All riiiight," come to mind). And it has been adequately accessible to me throughout my life, whether loving every minute of it as an 11-year-old, or doing the same now at 23.
For this quality, Dumb and Dumber lands among the greatest comedies of all time in my book, and certainly of the 1990's. Whether it can stand up to smarter comedies like The Big Lebowski, has yet to be debated here - but we'll save that for another day. For now, I have a whole day off today, so I'm off to enjoy it.

Amish People

Note: This post is rated M for Mature.

It's about time I got this down on paper, or 'internet,' as they call it these days.
I just plain don't like Amish people. And it's not because I'm a racist or something - no, there's no such thing as a non-white Amish guy. As a matter of fact, I think Amish people might be a little racist for not letting anyone else look like an idiot and spend all day farming and playing with wooden toys in candlelight.
Y'see, this conversation came to light one time during a long drive in the back roads of Susquehanna University, my distinguished alma mater and no doubt a future addition to the Ivy League. On those roads, you'll find as much as a quarter to half mile between houses, the kind of seclusion that rich people pay out the ass to get a hold of. And every now and then, an Amish family will poke their heads up from their horse-drawn carriage or plow or whatever the hell, bringing us one day to the conversation, "Hey Tom, what do you think about Amish people?"
Well, goddammit, I think they're a bunch of stubborn, ignorant freeloaders, that's what I fucking think, said I. The reason for this is very simple, too, and in my opinion, very logical, with only a faint tinge of unreasoned animosity.
Amish people are a bunch of idiots, who refuse to change anything about their ludicrously archaic ways of life, which are based on their subscription to the Mennonite religion. They rise at dawn, vanish at dusk like some kind of cartoon character. Their traditional beards, sans mustache, make them look even more cartoony. They put their kids in tiny schoolhouses where they're being fed nonsense that I don't even care to conjecture about. They farm, farm, farm, and keep their community almost completely sequestered from normal people, until they decide they have to grift some cash off of us so they ride their buggies into town and sell their potatoes and whoopie pies on street corners, like they were hobos. They aren't supposed to use electricity (which a handful do), and most importantly, they don't take part in any government programs or accept any government benefits. And in return, they do not pay taxes.
Fuck you, says I. Judging from the look of things in other countries throughout the world, especially in Africa, parts of Asia, South America, I'd say it's a real privilege to be living in a place where dictators are not trying to slaughter or enslave us, guerillas are not ransacking towns and burning buildings to the ground, and the land is fertile enough to grow their fucking whoopie pies. That is not the case in much of the world.
But Amish people choose, based on their religion, to not partake in any interaction with their government on any level. And for whatever fucking reason, they are rewarded for this antisocial, downright selfish behavior by not having to pay any taxes besides for sales tax at a store. They are given safety, serenity and the opportunity to flourish within America's borders, and they give nothing back. And as near as I can tell, this is based either on a) a, exemption made based on their religious affiliation, or b) affording a unique group of people an opportunity to continue their lifestyle in the face of obvious evidence that says their lifestyle is outdated beyond any hope of salvation.
To both of those reasons, I say fuck you, once again. America enjoys a separation of church and state which favors no religion over any other, at least in theory. And America has grown and advanced to the point that it has today, by being the innovational, technological leader in the world, by constantly trying to improve ourselves and one-up the rest of the world because we want to be better than them.
But if both of those were actually, 100% true, then I wouldn't have to be explaining my opinion on these people. They think because they don't subscribe to any violence, we'll feel compassionately for them and their self-induced plight and just let them slide, I guess. After all, they're a relatively small portion of our population, and what's a few freeloaders in a big pot of taxpayers?
It's bullshit, that's what it is. And as a hardworking, taxpaying American citizen, I say it's about time that either someone explained to me why we allow these inbred, brainwashed simpletons to remain as such, or they start paying their fucking taxes.
Please feel free to correct me and my thinking in any way, because so far, nobody has.

Progress

Besides to congratulate Barack Obama for finally putting an end to the longest primary season ever, and to ponder on whether our country has actually come far enough that the clearly superior Obama might actually be elected, over the man who would usually be the clear favorite, I've really got very little to talk about. True, this is a huge step for America, a movement toward equality the likes of which we've never seen before. And it could open the door for a flood of opportunities for similar equalization, for women, for gays and lesbians, and for a whole host of others.
Not only that, but Obama will pull our nation out of the downward spiral in which it has been since before that war started, the unnecessary one in Iraq that has taken 4,000 young American men and women from their families and their lives forever, not to mention more than 100,000 Iraqi civilians as well.
The first amendment to our Constitution allows us to speak out against anyone we choose, including our government, when we feel the need to protest. I chose to do so in the beginning days of the Iraq War, as did Mr. Obama from his unfortunately inconsequential-at-the-time seat in the Illinois Senate. The people in power did not, the people to whom we gave our confidence in votes, and for that reason our nation is in a shitty, shitty place.
Nothing, and I mean nothing, is better now than it was eight years ago for this country, and that's because we've had a bumbling fucking idiot in the White House for the last seven and a half years. And the man whom he has endorsed, John McCain, will only keep us on this same path to...well, fuck, I don't know where it goes, but it's not where we want to be.
Forget about your cornerstone issue, whether it's abortion, gay marriage, the economy, global warming, or whatever. Take a good, long look at the state of our nation on every level that you can imagine. And try to imagine what will happen to our troops, our gays, our single mothers, our students, our car-drivers, our food consumers, our workers - fuck, everybody - if we have to put up with four more years of this bullshit from John McCain instead of George W. Bush.
My mantra for this coming general election, which I encourage others to adopt as their own, is that if you're voting for John McCain, you'd better have a fucking brilliant explanation as to why.
Progress has been made, and it's time to run with that progress.

See, I knew I had something to talk about.

Food Review: John's Roast Pork (4 out of 5)

Food: Sandwiches
Location: 14 Snyder Ave., South Philly
Phone: (215) 463-1951
Date Visited: 05-30-2008, 10:15 a.m.
Rating: 4 out of 5

Man, this hurts.
I'd hoped, nay, expected that I'd be able to hand out my first 5 out of 5 rating with a long-awaited visit to the big one - John's Roast Pork on Snyder Ave. This place is widely regarded as the best of the best, by everyone from Glen Macnow on WIP to Craig LaBan at the Inquirer. And their ridiculous hours, Monday through Friday from 6:45 a.m. to 3 p.m., had kept me from sampling their legendary wares for so long, I thought I'd drop dead when I finally got there during operating hours.
I did so this past Friday, during a rare afternoon off from work (to be followed, naturally, by an evening at work). I'd just bought a new bicycle the day before, and by new I mean used, but only $60 and barely used at all. Friday morning found me awake by 7:30 or so, another in a growing string of sleepless mornings. My roommate Dave and I had discussed the possibility of visiting this spot together that morning, but he'd gone and made lunch plans without me, that bastard. So at about 8:15, before I could convince myself otherwise, I hopped onto the bike and began a long, long trip into the city.
The Schuylkill River Trail runs right near my house in Conshohocken, apparently extending as far as Reading in one direction, and ending up at the Art Museum on the other end. It's an absolutely beautiful paved trail, usually alive with people on foot and on wheels, but quiet today due to the hour. The sunny weather made it a perfect day for an excursion like this, and I'd managed to muster some music onto my Ipod from this pitiful excuse of a computer - a Dead show that I hadn't heard yet, from August in 1972, an excellent soundtrack for this little adventure. I had a few things in a bookbag, like water, my wallet and phone...but goddammit, no camera. A major oversight on my part, for which I apologize sincerely.
Anyway, the ride down took just under two hours, and I pulled up at about 10:10. I caught my breath, drank some water and rested my bike against one of the tables outside. The smell of fried onions pervaded through the street outside.
There were a few people in line, with one guy fielding orders for roast beef and roast pork, and another guy working the grill. I waited about five minutes before placing my order with the grill guy: two cheesesteaks, fried onions, American cheese. I grabbed two bottles of Fiji water for the ride home, and paid $18 and change for the whole deal. The cheesesteaks were $7 apiece. And while I waited, I was party to an entire wall covered in accolades, awards and newspaper articles about the best cheesesteak in Philly, made in that very place.
Well, it was a good thing I had reading material. While I hung back to make room for other customers, my order somehow...vanished. It was never written down, only placed into the memory of the grill guy. I was that unfortunate sap who stood and watched while everybody else got their food, and mine never came up.
After about 20 minutes of this nonsense, I approached the counter and politely notified the cook of his error. He was quick to apologize, and said they'd be ready in two minutes. I told him to take his time, as I'd rather have them done right than fast. Five minutes later, I got my sandwiches and another apology. Fitting, I thought, that after I'd waited weeks to be able to make it to John's during business hours, I had to wait that extra 20 minutes to boot.
I sat down outside next to my bicycle (which, luckily, had not yet been stolen), a table over from an older woman sitting by herself with a spread of papers in front of her and a portable telephone. I opened up the wrapping to find something I've never before encountered: sesame seeds on a cheesesteak roll. The roll was tough but not too thick, the meat thick and plentiful, and the cheese was divine. This was a very good sandwich.
But the flaws were there. The onions lent a modestly satisfying tinge of flavor, but nothing robust, which left me slightly unsatisfied. The meat, which was sliced, chopped slightly but not dices, had a little gristle left which held the sandwich together during a few bites. And most disappointingly, I encountered no fewer than two tiny bits of bone while I chewed on the cheesesteak. Maybe this makes some people feel like they're eating fresher meat, but as for me, I'd rather not be biting down on bits of bone for any reason.
These mitigating factors, combined with the extraneous wait, made it impossible for me to give John's the 5 out of 5 that so many other people say they deserve. Maybe I was just that unlucky customer on this particular day, but if you're going to get my expectations that high, you better fucking put out and stick around for more in the morning, goddammit.
It was, however, big enough to fill me up, which I chose not to do on this particular occasion, given the long ride hope that lay before me. I finished half and wrapped the other half up and put it in my bookbag, next to the one I bought to bring home for Dave.
The ride home was less pleasant than the ride down, as the bike seat had become progressively uncomfortable. I stopped off in Manayunk on the way and got the seat replaced entirely, at a cost of $40, bringing the total cost of this bicycle to around $100.
I pulled up to my house around 1:00, a nearly five hour bike ride that spanned probably about 35 miles or something. My biggest regret was that my camera sat in my car at home the whole time. It'll be out in full force for my next review - which, now that I've been somewhat disillusioned by this particular venture, will probably be closer to home.
Still, 4 out of 5 ain't bad.

Concert Story: Dark Star Orchestra @ the Electric Factory, 05-25-2008

Ahhh, Dark Star.
Had I been born ten, even five years earlier than I was, I would have used every opportunity I had to attend some of the many concerts performed by my favorite band, the Grateful Dead. Notorious for their incredible live performances, the Grateful Dead performed 30 years worth of music that remains today only in audio, occasionally in video...not in experience. Their music has brought me more joy than almost anything I can think of, and I never even got to see them play together.
But the fact remains, their music has changed my life in ways I could never have imagined; that in mind, it would be unrealistic for me not to wonder what kind of experience I can hear going on in the crowd in all of those old live recordings I've collected. I reiterate, I never had the chance, as Jerry Garcia died during the summer of my 10th year. If that's not an acceptable excuse, I don't know what is.

Since 1999, a band that began as a local act in Chicago has turned into my favorite live music act, and has done so by mimicking the surreal art form of that same band, the Grateful Dead. This group, called Dark Star Orchestra, has taken a not uncommon concept (performing live as a Grateful Dead cover band, playing only songs that the Dead played) and embellished upon this, to the point of performing not just songs by the Dead, but entire setlists from the Dead's concert history, which spans over 2,300 individual shows with none the same as the one before.
Dark Star Orchestra (DSO) plays around 130 masterful shows each year, usually recreating an old Dead setlist followed by a few filler songs. The group uses their own members to correspond with the oft-changing members of the Dead's repertoire; for Dead setlists which originally included vocalist Donna Godchaux on the bill, DSO will include singer Lisa Mackey to play Donna's mpart. But during shows that didn't include Donna, Lisa can sometimes be found working the T-shirt sales booth. Clues like this, and like the list's particular song selection, spin the concert on an entire new level for hardcore fans such as myself - offering us the opportunity to guess which year the list is from. And in the meanwhile, they are outrageously talented, as close to a carbon copy of the Dead's sound as I have ever heard.
My mom does not approve. She's very proud of my tastes in music, for which she's more responsible than anybody. I've turned her on to some awesome tunes, but she is not down with DSO. She feels that music is about creativity, which I can agree with her about to a certain degree. But music is not only about creativity, and I believe that creativity can be (and is, in every single concert) possible amid this band's kind of imitation. They do not listen to each Dead performance and recreate it note for note, only song for song. Those of us who know the Dead know that would be certifiably impossible, especially when the band plays a three-hour show every 2 1/2 days on average.
But within the boundaries of each song, DSO lets their creative spirits soar, improvising and romancing every possibly variable segment of every single song. The songs are the Dead's, and DSO shows those of us who were not fortunate enough to experience the Dead in person, just the faintest glimpse of what that experience might have looked like, felt like, smelled like. And for giving me that glimpse, they are my single favorite group to see perform.

Having amply introduced the band (love you Ma), I'll tell you about my concert experience this past weekend. I'd purchased my ticket online a couple of weeks ago, paying more than I'm used to for a Dark Star ticket, but enjoying the convenience of knowing I was getting in without a fight.
My usual concert buddies, Joey and Sarah, had not purchased tickets, as Joey had to visit his dad in Pittsburgh the night before and wasn't sure if he'd make it. The day of, he decided he could make it, after online ticket sales had already ended. So being the nice guy I am, I hopped into my trusty motorcarriage and trekked on down to the Electric Factory, located at 421 N. 7th St., between Callowhill and Spring Garden. The website said the ticket window would be open at 4:00, so when I arrived at about 6:15 in the afternoon, I expected they might be sold out. Instead, the website was lying, and I sat around with a friendly group of hippies until the window opened at 6:55. I bought Joey and Sarah's tickets for $30 each, about $5 cheaper than my ticket, goddammit.
Well, no matter. Not feeling like driving home, only to drive back after a few hours, I decided to stick around and find a good watering hole to kill my time. I took a peek at my trusty Not For Tourists Philly guide, which directed me four blocks east to Finnegan's Wake - which, once I got there at 7:15 p.m., was closed. Absolutely ridiculous.
There was nothing else in sight, so I marched back west until arriving eventually at...the Spaghetti Warehouse, by 11th St. No thanks.
From there, I headed south, hoping something might beckon to me from Chinatown. Alas, it was not to be. Every place looked exactly the same, and I really, really wasn't in the mood for Chinese food before a long night of dancing.
So at Market Street, I headed back east, enjoying a pleasant walk through lovely (though restaurant-free) Independence Park, eventually finding myself at a low-key bar called Charlie's, located by the corner of N. 3rd and...Vine? Regardless, the walk took me a fucking long time, one that I don't plan on making again anytime soon. Live and learn.
Inside Charlie's, a sexy, sharp-witted bartender named Rachel served me a plate of fish & chips, along with a handsome selection of beers. During my visit, Sarah arrived ahead of Joey and came in to match me on drinks, which she did very skilfully, including a few $3 kamikazes.
We lurched our way over to the E-Factory around 10 (the show started at 11), meeting up with a few kids on the way who were lucky that I knew where I was going.
We met up with Joey right outside the venue, which was swarming with tye-dye and a few unwelcome cop cars. On Joey's suggestion, we decided we'd enjoy this concert from the balcony, since we'd shown up with enough time to find a decent spot. This was the best place to enjoy the beverages, as there were cute waitresses in black shirts weaving their way through the crowds.
My friend Ryan, an old co-worker, called my phone knowing I'd be there. He pointed himself out to me in the audience, sitting with his girlfriend Reagan at the top of the balcony, on a couch. I had no idea such an amenity existed at the E-Factory, and what a lovely surprise it was. We managed to still get a decent view of the band over the heads of a few people sitting at barstools a few feet in front of us, but fuck, we had a couch.
The band played very well, and I expected no less. I was slightly disappointed, however, that the 11:00 start time had to give way to a mandatory 2:00 a.m. end time, by law. Each song was ever so slightly more punctuated to save time, and I could hear it. Still, this was my 15th (16th?) Dark Star show, and my first in almost a year, for reasons inexplicable. So I was thrilled to see them in almost any context. They played a solid show from January 14, 1978 - and yes, I guessed the year correctly. Highlights included a Jack Straw opener, Cassidy, Loser, Let it Grow, Candyman and Eyes of the World, including a Don't Let Go encore. It was a terrific show, and the option of standing up to dance or sitting on the couch to catch my breath was a magnificent one, indeed.
I'll be out to see them again soon, but I should mention that my trip home from the E-Factory that night took a full hour. In contrast, the drive back the next morning to drop Joey off at his car, took 15 minutes. Go figure.

Since then, the three of us have begun our discussions of our upcoming trip (and by upcoming, I mean a year from now) and where we'll be going in each spot. You'll hear more about that, next time.

The Great American Road Trip

The loftiest of our goals are naturally the most difficult, and thereby least likely, to achieve. I have set out on my share of endeavors that ultimately went unfinished - moving to Baltimore last year, completing that stupid Sophomore Essay class in college...the longer I think about it, the more I could rattle off.
But for the most part, the times in which I've been most disappointed in myself have been of my own doing, in situations when I was the only person accountable and therefore left myself no one to blame besides for yours truly.
With that in mind, today begins the first installment of a many part series here on on Conshohocken Freedom. If I hadn't already settled on an appropriate name for it, I just dreamed up "Freedom From Conshohocken" just now, on the spot - ultimately, what it will mean for me. But more to the point - let me tell you about the Great American Road Trip.

During college, I was privileged enough to be randomly matched to a terrific freshman year roommate, a fellow by the name of Joey, from Williamsport, PA. Sure, he's got his pitfalls - he farts a lot, he pees the bed regularly (though he's gotten better about that since we graduated), and most importantly of all, he scored 10 points lower than I did on the SATs, a point that I make sure to revive as often as I can remember. But aside from that, he's a stand-up guy, and a very good friend of mine.
Joey met a lovely young lady named Sarah during our senior year, a soft-spoken woman from Massachusetts with equally excellent taste in music as Joey's and mine. He did so in the only he way he'll ever be able to pick up a girl - by living next door to her, of course. But lo and behold, they've turned into quite the couple, moving in together after school in Mt. Holly, NJ. The three of us are still very good friends, and have spent nearly all of the Democratic primary season visiting each other to eat, drink and toast each passing Obama victory.

Long story short, the three of us are all looking for an adventure. Joey and Sarah were able to drive cross-country and back during the winter of our senior year, and it only served to whet their appetite for a greater, even loftier adventure. And I'm right there with them. I've never had (or made) the opportunity to do anywhere near as much traveling as I'd like. My biggest trips so far in life have been a week in Traverse City, Mi. by plane, a week in Montreal by bus, a week in Tampa by car, and a flurry of ventures around the northeast United States as a child. A pitiful list of travels by any measure.
So Joey, Sarah and I have begun planning what will take place in May of 2009, tentatively on the 20th. We'll drive up and down this broad country, visiting more than 20 major cities to ultimately end up in Portland, Or. Our plans are to drive there, and stay there.
The drive will begin in Philadelphia with what will undoubtedly be a heartwrenching goodbye. We'll head first to Baltimore, continuing on to Washington, D.C. to visit my lovely older sister Lela. Next stop will be New York City, and on to Boston, followed by Lewiston, Me. to visit our friend Kimmy. Then west to Buffalo to weigh in on the famous wing rivalry between Duff's and someone else (I'll do some research). Southwest to Cleveland, and then south to Charlotte, NC to visit our buddy Chad. Then south to the beach in Charleston, S.C., and further south to Savannah, Ga. Joey insisted on going to Daytona Beach, Fl., which should warrant a stop in Jacksonville, as long as it's on the way. From there, west to Atlanta, followed by an obligatory swing through historic Birmingham. We'll follow with a few days in N'Orleans, followed by a drive north through Jackson, Ms. and a rodeo, by Joey's suggestion, in or around Memphis, Tn. We'll keep driving north to St. Louis, and then visit Chicago for pizza and Milwaukee for beer. Next, southwest to Des Moines, and south to Kansas City on the way to Wichita, to look around for Jack Straw. From there we'll drive south to Dallas, northwest through Amarillo and up to Denver, beautiful Denver. We'll continue westward through the Rockies to Vegas, followed by a drive southeast to Phoenix. We'll swing through Mexicali, and further on to San Diego, with a possible day in Tijuana? Then along the coast to L.A., and of course to San Francisco. Then we'll drive up Highway 1 to 101, stopping off in Eugene and ending, finally, in Portland, a full 100 days later.
The whole trip measures out to just over 9,000 miles of driving. At a $5.00/gal gas estimate, we'll drive my car at about 30 mpg, and each pay around $500 in gas money. We'll stay with friends in cities where we have them, but the rest of the time we'll be on the search for campgrounds. Maybe we'll stay at a motel if it's pouring rain and we find a really cheap one, but otherwise we'll be camping.
The long and the short of it being, it will be the greatest adventure of my life. And the only way it'll ever happen is if we start planning now, which we have. And I have a brand new motivation, a reason to kick ass at work, prepare for the journey and, of course, document every moment of it right here. I guess I'll have to change the blog's name, but I'll cross that bridge when I get to it.
This will be my loftiest goal. And with Joey, Sarah, and an entire year of planning behind it, it's going to be out of this world.

Food Review: Sonny's Famous Steaks (4.5 out of 5)

This post was written last Sunday, one week ago, before my trusty ol' computer bit the dust. Today, a week later, I'm slowly creeping back to equilibrium, but not there yet. Here's what I wrote immediately after visiting.

Food: Cheesesteaks

Location: 228 Market St., Old City, Philadelphia

Phone: (215) 629-5760

Date Visited: 05-11-2008, 12:15 p.m.

Rating: 4.5 out of 5

For starters, this is getting ridiculous. Today was the fifth day in a row that I've swallowed up a cheesesteak; I did D'alessandro's on Wednesday and Friday (the review of which is being withheld for a later, more prestigious occasion), already wrote about III Illiano's on Thursday and Lou's yesterday. Today was Sunday, and I went with #7 on WIP's super cheesesteak list: Sonny's Famous Steaks, on Market Street in Old City, about a block from the lovely Arden Theatre Company.

There were some elements of the drive which I found to be rather perplexing, elements that are Sunday mainstays at this time of year. Traffic on 76 East between the Roosevelt Blvd. and Girard Ave. gets completely constipated due to zoo traffic, so I take the wise man's route, Kelly Drive. However, this was similarly frustrating, as I encountered a Regatta-driven detour once I approached the boathouses. And to top it all off, it was Mother's Day, so the commotion was at a slightly higher level than usual.

Most importantly about the establishment itself, the parking was a challenge. I did not expect to circle around for 20 minutes looking for a spot. I found myself a little place that I wasn't sure would be legal, on the corner of Fifth and Chestnut, about three and a half blocks away.

I love Old City. It's vibrant, colorful, and on this particular day, the whole neighborhood smelled like fresh food. I found my way to Sonny's, a pleasant, middle-of-the-block sitdown, complete with outdoor seating. Inside, the floor was clean, the look was pretty sharp and the seating was surprisingly ample. It was just after noon, and with no line I was greeted promptly and placed my order, cheesesteak, fried onions, American. With a bottle of Coke my lunch was $8.25, and took no more than three minutes to prepare as I obnoxiously snapped a few pictures of the interior. I don't really know photography etiquite so well, whether I should ask permission before shooting, but I just shot anyway. In the meanwhile, I noticed the slightly comical t-shirts that each of the people behind the counter was wearing, black shirts with the Sonny's logo on the front and a silhouette of a cheesesteak on the back with the words, "Bite Me." I inquired, and yes, they had extras for sale for $15. Large, please.

I got my food and walked toward my car, stopping with a block remaining to snap a picture of the sandwich. It was a little light - I knew before I opened the wrapping that it bordered on being short of a full meal. I stole an initial bite before I finished walking to the car, which made me sit back down to fully comprehend this phenomenal creation. The meat was sliced thick, not diced, but unlike Lou's from the day before, it didn't cling together in any way. The roll incurred some saturation along the bottom, but did not split or even threaten. The onions were the best I've had, finely chopped and browned to perfection. The cheese was melted immaculately alond the interior sides of the roll on the inside, but left the sandwich with its only structural flaw: it needed just one more slice of cheese. Its slight lacking in that department left it with a deduction of a few tenths of a point.

The other deduction came during the drive home, as I shoved the last piece of roll into my mouth. The sandwich was gone, every single morsel of it, and I could have eaten at least another half. Granted, I didn't have a stomach full of pasta from the night before (as was the case yesterday), but a cheesesteak should fill you up, and this one, unfortunately, didn't. And when I say unfortunately, I really mean it, because this cheesesteak was one of the most delicious I've ever had.

Again, I love Old City, and now I know where to get a fantastic Old City cheesesteak as late as 3 a.m. on Friday and Saturday. I'm pretty sure that knowledge will come in very handy in the near future, and when it does, I'll remember to buy two and savor them both.

Microsoft Sucks

This post was written Wednesday night (Tuesday night?) in a fit of frustration over my continuing struggles with technology. I'll put up a food review tonight or tomorrow afternoon - went to Sonny's in Old City. Mmm mmm. In the meanwhile, here's something to tide you over.

What a bunch of fucking assholes. I've had the same computer for close to five years now, though it has undergone a complete overhaul at the hands of my ex-girlfriend's younger brother about two years ago. It had become so riddled with viruses that he wiped the whole thing clean and set it up with a bootleg copy of Windows XP, as well as some extra stuff like an audio editing studio, which made my radio show at school possible. For his reward, I gave him ten dollars. What a cheapskate.
Well, karma has come for me, as it finally gave up the ghost...again. I'd already purchased a gigantic external hard drive for music storage, so I moved everything imortant onto that and bit the bullet, bought a new copy of Windows for 200 fucking dollars. I bring it home, try one more time to bring the thing back form the dead, and failing that, pop open the package and install my new software, which takes about two or three hours to complete.
It finishes setup, restarts, and the brand new operating system is born. In 4-color mode. Clearly the most notable deficiency at the outset, I follow the recommended steps to correct the problem, which invloves me connecting to the internet. I am connected, through a wireless connection that the computer is reading and recognizing. But it won't go anywhere.
That was...Monday? I don't even know anymore. But now it's Wednesday and it was just before 10:00 p.m. when I picked up the phone to call Microsoft and beg them for help. My call was answered promptly, by a nice girl named Katrina, who began the process of fixing my problem but said that she'd be connecting me to a service technician or something. Right now, as I'm typing this, it's 10:30, and I've been on hold for about a half hour.
And in the meanwhile, I decided to work on a blog entry to explain my inexcusable absence from posting for the last several days. But lo and fucking behold, my brand new copy of Windows does not have any of the Microsoft Office programs. I'm writing this in WordPad right now.
What a crock of bullshit. Clearly it's time to put some money aside, go Mac and don't ever fucking look back. There are only a few things in this wonderful world that, in their absence, I find my livelihood and my sanity under fire; my computer is one of them. And it doesn't make me happy to drop more than $200 in cash under any circumstances, but I was willing with no hesitation to do so for the sake of the computer - home to my music, a fix for my political junkie within, and now, a venue to voice my thoughts and opinions to the world.
Thank god for that stimulus package.

Note: The phone call to Microsoft ended at a total of 84 minutes long, most of which was spent on hold. Give me a few days and I'll have shit back up to speed.

Technological Warfare

This has to be quick, since I'm at work. I typed up two (count 'em, two) posts yesterday from a very old school laptop, and those posts are now trapped therein. The laptop has no internet access, no floppy drive, no CD-R drive. Fucking Windows 95, for crying out loud. After work, I plan on toiling until I've made the transfer; until then, fear not, I've not yet abandoned this lovely blog.

Food Review: Lou's Sandwich Shop (4 out of 5)

Food: Classic Diner
Location: 414 E. Main St., Norristown
Phone: (610) 279-5415
Date visited: 05-10-2008, 10:45 a.m.
Rating: 4 out of 5

This morning, I awoke to a Saturday free of responsibility until 4:30 in the afternoon, which is really the most I can hope for in terms of free time. I might note, since I haven't yet on this blog, that I'm a seven-day workweek guy; I spend five days a week waiting tables at a restaurant in Conshohocken (to pay the bills), and the other two days working at a P.R. company in Philadelphia (to further my career). So there are certain places that I'm usually not able to go for food, like John's Roast Pork in South Philly, which has obscenely inconvenient hours but apparently sensational food.
Today, my craving came on early, just after 10:00. My stomach was still pretty gorged from a plate of leftover pasta that I devoured just before I fell asleep, but once I start reading that list of WIP's best cheesesteaks (see link listed on the left), my mouth doesn't stop watering. I knew for a fact that I was almost out of gas, and fuck you, I'm not paying $3.75 a gallon for gas until I absolutely have to. So I went down the list and picked out the place closest to my house: Lou's Sandwich Shop, a "dive" on Main St. in Norristown.
I placed my phone call at 10:30, and learned over the phone that there were at least three sizes of cheesesteak - small, six or seven inches long; medium, your standard cheesesteak roll (about a foot); and large, which I didn't bother asking about. I got a medium, with fried onions and American cheese, threw on a sweatshirt and was on my way.
The drive was incredibly easy, west down ridge pike with an easy parallel park in front of the church across the street. The establishment itself, while well-lit and brightly painted, was populated by the homeliest, most hopeless breed of Norristonians that I've ever seen in such close concentration. I have a feeling I would have attracted a fair amount of attention if my sweatshirt hadn't been concealing my "Barack The Vote" t-shirt.
The cheesesteak was ready and waiting when I reached the counter, and with a 20-oz Coke came to an even $8. The smell overpowered my car almost immediately, prompting me (as usual) to tear in during transit. A thin line of melted cheese came away as I opened the paper, revealing a beautifully crafted sandwich with the meat intact, rather than shredded. The onions glistened like diamonds, the roll soft and almost malleable. The looks of this cheesesteak made me positively swoon.
The taste was out of this world, a gracious collaboration of juicy meat, fresh cheese and sweet onions, probably teetering on a 4.8 or 4.9 out of 5. It was piping hot and very well-sized, leaving no room whatsoever in my stomach (and even warranting a mid-sandwich slowdown, though my late night pasta binge last night was a major contributor). But a few deductions must be made from this otherwise phenomenal creation. First, while I do derive a certain satisfaction from eating a cheesesteak with longer, less chopped cuts of meat such as this one, that feeling may well be nearly negated by a stringy cheesesteak, one which you had to kind of tug at in order to sever a bite from the rest of the sandwich. This problem was in the cards here, though not to an uncomfortable extent. Just slightly bothersome. Second, the roll didn't hold up; before I made it through the first half, the meat had torn through the bottom of the oversaturated roll. Normally, this would be the grease's fault if a sandwich wasn't eaten in enough time after it was prepared; however, I knew it wasn't the case today, since I'd placed my order not twenty minutes beforehand.
Finally, I have to reiterate the poor dining environment. It might work for some people, but I have a feeling that if I had sat down to eat in, my review would have been lowered by at least a half point. No joke.
This place is open for breakfast - how early that is, I don't know, as they did not have any to go menus on hand when I visited. But if you live on this side of Philadelphia and you want a great cheesesteak, call ahead and get one for the road.

Food Review: III Illiano's Pizza (2.5 out of 5)

Food: Pizza/sandwiches
Location: 24 Ridge Pike, Conshohocken, inside the Whitemarsh Shopping Center
Phone: (610) 397-0272
Date visited: 05-08-2008, 8:00 p.m.
Rating: 2.5 out of 5

My dinner selection yesterday evening came on the basis of what was closest to the liquor store. In fact, I was walking to the grocery store, not even remembering that there was a Bravo's-type pizza place just before it. I figured I'd drop in for a first visit and maybe just a slice of pizza to go. It was about 8:00, and I was sure they didn't want to be bothered with an extensive order.
But by some stroke of luck, as I walked through the door, one of the cooks was chopping beef on the grill for cheesesteaks. Clearly I ordered one, with fried onions. And wouldn't you know, these kind gentlemen were thoughtful enough to give me one of the steaks they'd been working on when I walked in, so my wait time was about sixty seconds. Not too shabby. I dropped my change and a dollar into the tip jar and grabbed a menu on the way out.
Now, when I got into my car first thing that morning to go to work, the smell of fried onions still pervaded through my car, like some sort of intoxicating air freshener. This was because I visited D'alessandro's yesterday and ate the entire cheesesteak driving on Kelly Drive, probably leaving a few chopped onions on the floor or between the seats. Regardless, by the evening it had dissipated; and while my new sandwich stayed in its packaging the whole drive back to my house, it contributed practically no aroma to what still remained from my last cheesesteak trip. A bad sign; even inside the wrapping, you should be able to tell that there's a cheesesteak in the car.
I got home and tore into it, still steaming enough to make me slow down. It was disappointing in size, compared with other massive sandwiches available throughout Conshy. The onions were very thin on flavor; my friend Jon, who was over to drink with me and bore witness to my dining experience, suggested that the onions may have been undercooked. The book was not as dark as I like to see, but instead a questionable gray, probably from an excess of grease. It did not drip like a greaser, but the roll was soft and just slightly soggy. It was gone in under six minutes, and filled me up to a decent degree, but I could have eaten a lot more if I'd gone somewhere else.
Overall, the place looked good, with a fair amount of booth seating for an establishment its size. And the pizza, which sat in wait behind a glass panel at the front, looked amply sized and delicious. No delivery is available, and the name is extremely confusing; I went with Google's listing, but on CitySearch they're listed as Illiano's Pizza III. If you find yourself there, skip the cheesesteak and go for the pizza.

Ultimate Frisbee

When I was in high school, we had a Frisbee Club, of which I made myself the unofficial president because I was the only one who took the time to try to recruit people to come out and play. This was what an extracurricular should be; a bunch of us would trek down to the field, about a mile away from school (and off school property) around 3:00, and we'd smoke pot until the faculty adviser would show up. Then we'd play shirts vs. skins, with most of us barefoot, until around 5:30. Just a bunch of guys trying to kill those Monday high school blues.
But then I went to college, out at Susquehanna University in the middle of PA, and there was no such thing. Oh, there was a frisbee team, but they were nothing like what I've described above. No, no. These were grade A douchebags. The kind of guys you picked on all throughout middle school, and left alone in high school but really wanted to keep calling them names.
And these assholes took my favorite game (which I'd nicknamed hippie football) and made a mockery of it. They had mandatory practices three times a week, wore uniforms, and worst of all - cleats. Completely changing the idea behind what we were playing, they effectively chased me away from any organized version of the game as long as I was at school.

Yesterday, my good friend George shot me a text message during work telling me that he would be playing some ultimate frisbee somewhere in Manayunk, and invited me along. Obviously I accepted, and drove myself down to our friend Chris's house on Kalos St. in Manayunk. We got ourselves mentally prepared at Chris's and then made our way down to the field, a city block-sized patch of land on Henry Ave.
(I have to note that this field was directly next to D'alessandro's on Henry Ave, one of my favorite places to get a cheesesteak. Across the street stands Chubby's, which makes a sandwich to rival their competitor across the street. Sound familiar? The difference is that the age-old cheesesteak rivalry between Pat's and Geno's in South Philly concerns the originals and not the best in the biz today. Alas...this is a story for another day)
A good share of people showed up to play, about 20 in all, even one girl. But as soon as we started playing, it became fairly clear that I was in a game with that same kind of douchebag that hijacked the game back at college. They were trying to get us into zone defense formations, shouting "SUB!" at the top of their lungs whenever the disc was in the air, and apparently scolded one of my friends for not hustling enough. Meanwhile, they weren't even keeping score.
I don't know what it is; maybe that we're older, and just naturally more mean-spirited? Do we derive pleasure from giving out orders to people in the most mundane of situations? Do we get off on hearing our own voices? Or did I just stumble upon another batch of douchebags?
Regardless, it seems inescapable, and it will be the moral of my post today: Douchebags flock to ultimate frisbee. There's just no way to change it, and it's a damn shame for those of us who love to play and aren't douchebags.

But thank god for D'alessandro's, which made up for the whole disappointing evening. More on that soon. For now, back to bed for another half hour.

Primary Posting

I think I chose a good day to begin writing this blog. I'm 23, finished college for a year, and find myself living an unusual lifestyle that includes a seven day workweek, a profound love for live music, and a penchant for writing. Here, you'll be able to peruse my ramblings about whatever happens to be at the front of my mind, whether it be about dining out, traveling, cool spots in Philly or anything else.

Today is a nice day to begin, as today marks the unofficial end to Hillary Clinton's well-meaning presidential campaign. Poor, poor Hillary, whose ill-fated bid came at precisely the wrong time - that being at the same time as Barack Obama's bid. This contest has effectively been over, in my eyes, since the so-called "Potomac Primaries" of Maryland, Virginia and Washington, D.C., during which Obama beat the pantsuit off of Clinton by more than twenty points in each state. Finally, the candidates having completed 50 of 56 nominating contests, Tim Russert declared last night, "We now know who the nominee will be." I think that's as clear a note of finality as anyone can imagine.

I'm an ardent Obama supporter, thanks primarily to his opposition to the Iraq War before it began. I try to get involved, but I spend enough time on the phone at work that I'm not going to join a phone bank or anything. I have, however, managed to see both Barack and Michelle Obama speak (on separate occasions) in recent weeks, and will hopefully be able to do so again as the summer months progress. Such excursions, and their surrounding plans, are just the kind of thing you can expect me to be talking about on this blog.

But I've got plenty more on my mind. I've been on a cheesesteak binge lately, scouring through Conshy and Philly for spectacular specimens. My findings will have their home here as well.

In the meanwhile, I should be getting back to work. Nice to meet you, and we'll talk soon.

-Tom