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.

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.

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