You must take the blue line
From Berks and Front Street to City Hall Station
You will need to transfer
To the orange line at City Hall Station
Hurry, get on, beers are flowin'
Phillies may stink, we're still goin'
All aboard, get on the blue line
Soon you will be at the ballpark for a game
Showing posts with label Phillies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Phillies. Show all posts
Jokes (by Lee Porter)
Just because I knew the guy from way back when didn’t mean I wanted the conversation to proceed, but he continued to stand in front of me, blocking my way. “Excuse me,” I said.
“Jeff Bridges died.” He spoke fast. “Order a White Russian.”
Towering over me, I had to look up at him to meet his stare. He took a large, slow sip of his American Double Stout, the liquid like chewing tobacco spit, and smiled. I expected the thick, dark brew to be clumped up in his mouth, sticking to his teeth. It wasn’t. Even his beer projected disingenuousness. I didn’t smile back.
“Did you hear me? I said Jeff Bridges died. Go order a White Russian.”
“I heard you.”
“So. . . .”
“So okay.”
“Okay then.”
I joined Giovanni at the bar.
“Did he try that one on you, too?”
“Jeff Bridges?”
“Yeah.”
I took a sip from my beer and glanced at the televisions around the bar – all tuned to the Phillies game – nothing out of the ordinary. “I don’t believe him.”
So we played with our smartphones for a second and then placed them on coasters, not surprised that there was no news about Jeff Bridges – good or bad – online.
“I should have said ‘Yeah, well, you know, that’s just, like, your opinion, man,’” I mumbled. Giovanni laughed, flagged down the bartender and ordered sweet potato fries.
We finished our beers, ordered another round, talked about our women – or lack thereof – and comics.
I let the door swing closed behind me on our way out. He was standing outside, as if waiting for us, leaning against the wooden facade, smoking a cigarette.
“You guys leaving?”
I had to ask. “What do you have against Jeff Bridges, man?”
He explained that he and his friends would do this frequently when out late. “Do you know how little milk a bar normally stocks? They have to send a guy out just to get more. The more people we get ordering White Russians, the more they send some sad sack out for milk. You know how hard it is to buy a gallon of milk at one a.m. in this town?”
He laughed and spat on the sidewalk.
I shrugged. Giovanni and I walked away, down 15th Street.
“Why doesn’t he just say it’s his birthday? Why’s the joke have to be about death?”
(Lee Porter is the writer/producer of the award-winning comedy Web series My Ruined Life and the founder/editor of the food/drink site Chocolate Covered Memories. Lee’s work has been featured on Zoo With Roy, The Gaggle, Philly.com, Comcast SportsNet, Shmitten Kitten, and even tweeted by Questlove. Lee lives in Philadelphia.)
“Jeff Bridges died.” He spoke fast. “Order a White Russian.”
Towering over me, I had to look up at him to meet his stare. He took a large, slow sip of his American Double Stout, the liquid like chewing tobacco spit, and smiled. I expected the thick, dark brew to be clumped up in his mouth, sticking to his teeth. It wasn’t. Even his beer projected disingenuousness. I didn’t smile back.
“Did you hear me? I said Jeff Bridges died. Go order a White Russian.”
“I heard you.”
“So. . . .”
“So okay.”
“Okay then.”
I joined Giovanni at the bar.
“Did he try that one on you, too?”
“Jeff Bridges?”
“Yeah.”
I took a sip from my beer and glanced at the televisions around the bar – all tuned to the Phillies game – nothing out of the ordinary. “I don’t believe him.”
So we played with our smartphones for a second and then placed them on coasters, not surprised that there was no news about Jeff Bridges – good or bad – online.
“I should have said ‘Yeah, well, you know, that’s just, like, your opinion, man,’” I mumbled. Giovanni laughed, flagged down the bartender and ordered sweet potato fries.
We finished our beers, ordered another round, talked about our women – or lack thereof – and comics.
I let the door swing closed behind me on our way out. He was standing outside, as if waiting for us, leaning against the wooden facade, smoking a cigarette.
“You guys leaving?”
I had to ask. “What do you have against Jeff Bridges, man?”
He explained that he and his friends would do this frequently when out late. “Do you know how little milk a bar normally stocks? They have to send a guy out just to get more. The more people we get ordering White Russians, the more they send some sad sack out for milk. You know how hard it is to buy a gallon of milk at one a.m. in this town?”
He laughed and spat on the sidewalk.
I shrugged. Giovanni and I walked away, down 15th Street.
“Why doesn’t he just say it’s his birthday? Why’s the joke have to be about death?”
(Lee Porter is the writer/producer of the award-winning comedy Web series My Ruined Life and the founder/editor of the food/drink site Chocolate Covered Memories. Lee’s work has been featured on Zoo With Roy, The Gaggle, Philly.com, Comcast SportsNet, Shmitten Kitten, and even tweeted by Questlove. Lee lives in Philadelphia.)
Johnson
The hotel barroom sang a muffled song of jilts and laughs and confident exertions. A bandbox of a space with a lone billiards table and an L shaped bar, a few worn leather chairs and sofas rounding it out, businessmen and a country club crowd filled its seats and standing room.
"Come on now, Johnson, you can't possibly have bet against the Phillies last night. And who bets on baseball, anyway?" asked Robeson.
"I only bet it when I get the urge," replied Johnson, "and last night I had precisely that."
A third man sat and listened to this exchange, unamused. A business associate of Johnson's, visiting unexpectedly from China, Johnson felt his disapproval and knew its root.
"Oh, Wang, don't be such a curmudgeon. You've traveled all this way, may as well relax and let yourself go a little."
Wang boiled. "Mr. Johnson, you are correct. I've come a long way indeed. And all day today you avoid discuss with me the reason I am here. We go to ballgame, get massage, have long dinner with your friend-" Robeson nodded "-but not once we discuss business. You know why I am here."
Johnson, slightly drunk, laughed. "Sure, of course, you're here to bust my balls."
Now Robeson laughed too. "Mr. Johnson you owe my company hundreds of thousands of dollars! We are reaching the high credit limit we can extend to you. If this balance not cleared up soon, we will stop the relationship."
Robeson cringed as he listened to Wang threaten his friend. "Excuse me," he said, and walked to the other side of the bar, where he seamlessly fell into conversation with a well coiffed acquaintance.
"You can't cut us off, Wang! Don't be ridiculous, we own the market here, your customer base. We'll work something out tomorrow. Have another drink, wouldja?" Johnson slurred a little bit. He finished his Scotch and signaled for the bartender. "Wang, whaddaya wanna drink?"
"Nothing, Mr. Johnson. I'll retire now to my room. We talk first thing in the morning. 8:00. See you then in the lobby." He bowed to Johnson and left in a brisk strut.
"Darn Chinese," muttered Johnson to himself. He hid his stress level with a forced smile – a frequent, false expression of self-satisfaction. He thought of everyone to whom he owed money: Wang's company, various other enterprises in China and some in Europe, and multiple individuals, some more demanding than others. Lacking for a solution, he ordered another Scotch and resigned that he'd find a way to appease Wang the next day. He'd come up with something, he thought, he'd always come up with something.
Introductions
He sits and the clock ticks. He wants them to see him. He sees them all the time: at Higher Grounds, at Liberty Lands, at the Piazza. Here they are at 700 and he doesn't want much, just small talk.
He's employed various tactics already. At Higher Grounds he once spilled coffee at their feet. At Liberty Lands he tossed a Frisbee that landed right beside them. At the Piazza he did tricks on his skateboard, brushing past them. Never the most direct approach, though, a simple introduction. It made sense to him logically and yet felt like it would be weird.
Today, at 700, he eavesdrops. Their conversations sound so interesting, so appealing! Their dialogue so crisp. Even the pauses – he stares at them during the pauses – they look so happy during the pauses. How can people be so content during pauses in conversation? Is it because they're drunk? They drink it all down so smoothly – beer, wine, whiskey – the bartender keeps pouring and they just keep drinking. One speaks more than the other.
"Missanelli's right, you can't play a guy over Ryan Howard just because he hit well in Double A and Howard doesn't hit lefties."
The other guy shakes his head. "Can't do that to a veteran. Bad for clubhouse morale. . . ."
"She looks innocent but I can tell you she's not. I can assure you. . . ."
"We saw the Pixies that year, right after Bush's second term began. Where were we? Cleveland. Yes, Cleveland. . . ."
He hears these snippets and knows they could all be the best of friends. He's a Phillies fan, he's heterosexual, he likes the Pixies. He's even been to Cleveland.
He knows what he's going to do. It has to work! When the really chatty one is mid-sentence, he'll time it just right.
"So tomorrow night it's the Nationals. We still have an outside chance if—"
"Oh, excuse me," he says as he pretends to trip over himself, knocking into one of the two young men, the one called Garret.
Garret brushes himself off, repositioning his chair. "No problem, dude."
Garret and Joseph stare at the guy who just bumped into Garret, waiting for him to go on wherever he was going before he slipped and bumped into Garret, but the guy just stands there, staring.
"Fine day for a beverage, is it not?" he asks them, instantly regretting his choice of words.
But Garret and Joseph look at each other and then back at him, raise their glasses. Garret says, "Indeed it is! A fine day for a beverage."
His eyes light up. He's satisfied, then elated. "Good day, gentlemen." He turns and leaves the bar, goes about his day, feeling he's one step closer to his destiny, that of being their friend.
He's employed various tactics already. At Higher Grounds he once spilled coffee at their feet. At Liberty Lands he tossed a Frisbee that landed right beside them. At the Piazza he did tricks on his skateboard, brushing past them. Never the most direct approach, though, a simple introduction. It made sense to him logically and yet felt like it would be weird.
Today, at 700, he eavesdrops. Their conversations sound so interesting, so appealing! Their dialogue so crisp. Even the pauses – he stares at them during the pauses – they look so happy during the pauses. How can people be so content during pauses in conversation? Is it because they're drunk? They drink it all down so smoothly – beer, wine, whiskey – the bartender keeps pouring and they just keep drinking. One speaks more than the other.
"Missanelli's right, you can't play a guy over Ryan Howard just because he hit well in Double A and Howard doesn't hit lefties."
The other guy shakes his head. "Can't do that to a veteran. Bad for clubhouse morale. . . ."
"She looks innocent but I can tell you she's not. I can assure you. . . ."
"We saw the Pixies that year, right after Bush's second term began. Where were we? Cleveland. Yes, Cleveland. . . ."
He hears these snippets and knows they could all be the best of friends. He's a Phillies fan, he's heterosexual, he likes the Pixies. He's even been to Cleveland.
He knows what he's going to do. It has to work! When the really chatty one is mid-sentence, he'll time it just right.
"So tomorrow night it's the Nationals. We still have an outside chance if—"
"Oh, excuse me," he says as he pretends to trip over himself, knocking into one of the two young men, the one called Garret.
Garret brushes himself off, repositioning his chair. "No problem, dude."
Garret and Joseph stare at the guy who just bumped into Garret, waiting for him to go on wherever he was going before he slipped and bumped into Garret, but the guy just stands there, staring.
"Fine day for a beverage, is it not?" he asks them, instantly regretting his choice of words.
But Garret and Joseph look at each other and then back at him, raise their glasses. Garret says, "Indeed it is! A fine day for a beverage."
His eyes light up. He's satisfied, then elated. "Good day, gentlemen." He turns and leaves the bar, goes about his day, feeling he's one step closer to his destiny, that of being their friend.
A Friendship
We lived on the same city block. You had an air hockey table and HBO and we always stayed up late at your house. I would invite you when my mother made pasta and we ate until our bellies looked like they might pop.
We worked hard at our pursuits. You got the lead in the school play and everyone agreed you stole the show. I played basketball and guarded the other team’s best player all season long.
We drifted apart. You saw every good band at the Mann over the summer. I took SEPTA to the Vet and bought Phillies tickets for seven bucks a piece.
We changed our minds countless times. You wanted to be a performer, then a restaurateur, then a playwright. I wanted to be an investment banker without knowing what that meant, then a social worker, then a psychologist.
We came to desire familiarity. You met a girl and convinced her to join you in your move back to Philly, where you became a teacher. I went to Temple and continued living in my college apartment a few years following graduation, working for Aramark.
We reconnected and now our toddlers play together. Your son constantly tries to hug and kiss my daughter, sometimes knocks her over. My daughter likes to bring your son food, even when he’s not hungry.
We worked hard at our pursuits. You got the lead in the school play and everyone agreed you stole the show. I played basketball and guarded the other team’s best player all season long.
We drifted apart. You saw every good band at the Mann over the summer. I took SEPTA to the Vet and bought Phillies tickets for seven bucks a piece.
We changed our minds countless times. You wanted to be a performer, then a restaurateur, then a playwright. I wanted to be an investment banker without knowing what that meant, then a social worker, then a psychologist.
We came to desire familiarity. You met a girl and convinced her to join you in your move back to Philly, where you became a teacher. I went to Temple and continued living in my college apartment a few years following graduation, working for Aramark.
We reconnected and now our toddlers play together. Your son constantly tries to hug and kiss my daughter, sometimes knocks her over. My daughter likes to bring your son food, even when he’s not hungry.
Assigning Blame
Winston grabbed the two pages he’d just printed and took a thorough look at both. One wire order, one approval.
“Ron, we need to talk, it’s important.” Winston closed Ron’s office door behind him.
Ron pretended to have been doing something other than following the Phillies game on his computer. “Give me one sec,” he said, eyes fixed to the screen.
Winston planted himself in a chair.
“Okay, what’s up?”
“I logged into the PNC account today to make the China wire and our balance didn’t look right. Take a look at this transaction.” He handed the two pages to Ron.
“Seventy five thousand even. That’s odd. What’s it for?”
“I was hoping you knew. I don’t know of any bills for that amount.”
Ron glanced up at Winston, back down at the printout, up again and now locked the other man’s eyes, his expression a combination of anger and fear.
Winston, expectant, held Ron’s stare.
“Who’s the beneficiary?” Ron asked.
“It’s a numbered account at a bank in the Caymans, no name attached.”
“When was the wire made?”
“Last week.”
“And you know nothing about it?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you ask Dan?”
“I wanted to discuss it with you first. You know he and I are the only ones who have access to the system, and the wire was made via his login ID.”
“But any wire made with one ID has to be approved by the other, and from what you’re saying, you didn’t approve it.”
“Look at the second sheet of paper. It’s an approval for the wire made via my account, but I didn’t do it.”
Ron’s stare became more intense, searching for weakness in Winston’s face, a flinch, any implication of phoniness. He got nothing, but kept quiet, waiting for what he knew Winston would say next.
“Dan has access to my password and I can access his. Just in case something happens to one of us, we keep them written down in the safe.”
“Dan’s worked here twenty years. You’ve been here three. Are you accusing him of stealing seventy five thousand dollars?”
Winston shifted gears, looked away from Ron, appeared personally hurt by Dan’s alleged thieving. “I don’t know. He certainly doesn’t seem like a crook. I’m just presenting you with what I know. Maybe someone else got the passwords from the safe. You wanna call the police?”
“Seventy five fucking thousand.” Ron shook his head, slapped the desk in front of him and turned in his chair, away from Winston. “Dan’s not the type to do something like this. Something’s not right.”
". . ."
The boss turned back to his employee. “Get out of my office. I’ll handle this from here. I’ll tell the cops and see what the banks can find out and," Ron's eyes widened, "rest assured I'll get to the bottom of it.”
Winston nodded and left Ron’s office as quickly as he could. He imagined himself, as he often did, sitting at Dan’s desk instead of his own, thrilled for a moment and then suddenly angry, yet again, recalling the day he stealthily learned that Dan had been sleeping with his wife.
“Ron, we need to talk, it’s important.” Winston closed Ron’s office door behind him.
Ron pretended to have been doing something other than following the Phillies game on his computer. “Give me one sec,” he said, eyes fixed to the screen.
Winston planted himself in a chair.
“Okay, what’s up?”
“I logged into the PNC account today to make the China wire and our balance didn’t look right. Take a look at this transaction.” He handed the two pages to Ron.
“Seventy five thousand even. That’s odd. What’s it for?”
“I was hoping you knew. I don’t know of any bills for that amount.”
Ron glanced up at Winston, back down at the printout, up again and now locked the other man’s eyes, his expression a combination of anger and fear.
Winston, expectant, held Ron’s stare.
“Who’s the beneficiary?” Ron asked.
“It’s a numbered account at a bank in the Caymans, no name attached.”
“When was the wire made?”
“Last week.”
“And you know nothing about it?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you ask Dan?”
“I wanted to discuss it with you first. You know he and I are the only ones who have access to the system, and the wire was made via his login ID.”
“But any wire made with one ID has to be approved by the other, and from what you’re saying, you didn’t approve it.”
“Look at the second sheet of paper. It’s an approval for the wire made via my account, but I didn’t do it.”
Ron’s stare became more intense, searching for weakness in Winston’s face, a flinch, any implication of phoniness. He got nothing, but kept quiet, waiting for what he knew Winston would say next.
“Dan has access to my password and I can access his. Just in case something happens to one of us, we keep them written down in the safe.”
“Dan’s worked here twenty years. You’ve been here three. Are you accusing him of stealing seventy five thousand dollars?”
Winston shifted gears, looked away from Ron, appeared personally hurt by Dan’s alleged thieving. “I don’t know. He certainly doesn’t seem like a crook. I’m just presenting you with what I know. Maybe someone else got the passwords from the safe. You wanna call the police?”
“Seventy five fucking thousand.” Ron shook his head, slapped the desk in front of him and turned in his chair, away from Winston. “Dan’s not the type to do something like this. Something’s not right.”
". . ."
The boss turned back to his employee. “Get out of my office. I’ll handle this from here. I’ll tell the cops and see what the banks can find out and," Ron's eyes widened, "rest assured I'll get to the bottom of it.”
Winston nodded and left Ron’s office as quickly as he could. He imagined himself, as he often did, sitting at Dan’s desk instead of his own, thrilled for a moment and then suddenly angry, yet again, recalling the day he stealthily learned that Dan had been sleeping with his wife.
Drew's Diet
“Do you drink?”
“Socially. Few times a week.”
“Do you smoke?”
“No.”
“How’s your diet?
“I’m not on a diet.”
“I mean, what do you eat?”
“Oh. You know. All kinds of stuff.”
“Like?”
“I don’t know . . . roast pork sandwiches, wings, cheesesteaks, pizza steaks, pepperoni steaks, soft pretzels, cheese fries, crab fries, Spanish fries, potato chips, popcorn, pizza, fried chicken, waffles, pancakes, French toast, hoagies – usually Italian, eggs, sausage, bacon, grilled cheese and bacon, donuts, pastries, mozzarella cheese sticks, chicken parm, eggplant parm, scrapple, hashbrowns, corned beef hash, corned beef sandwiches, roast beef sandwiches, the Paesano from Paesano’s – you know, it’s got brisket and a fried egg and stuff, I usually get their roasted potatoes with it, lasagna, fettuccine alfredo, stuffed mushrooms, ravioli, stuffed shells, rollatini, sausage and peppers, kielbasa, bratwurst, pierogies, dumplings, General Tso’s chicken, fried rice, lo mein, lamb saag, chicken tikka masala, doner kebab, gyros – usually lamb, souvlaki – usually chicken, burritos, tacos, taquitos, fajitas, quesadillas, chips and salsa, chips and guacamole, ribs, pulled pork, pork belly, pork chops, fried chicken. . . .”
“You already said ‘fried chicken.’”
“Oh, sorry. I guess that’s about it.”
“What about burgers and hot dogs, you don’t like those?”
“Oh yeah, those too. Cheeseburgers. Always a dog at the Phillies game.”
“You don’t eat fish?”
“Sometimes I get fish and chips at The Abbaye.”
“No fruits or vegetables?”
“. . .”
“Well, the chart says you’re overweight, but not obese. You must exercise pretty often?”
“I play a lot of basketball and soccer.”
“Listen, Drew, you’re young, but you’re gonna have to change your eating habits. If your diet is really limited to the foods you described, you’re eventually gonna blow up like a balloon and you’ll have some health issues.”
“. . .”
“And come back and see me more than once every ten years. You should get a physical every three years.”
Drew left the doctor’s office and stopped at Rustica for a couple of slices en route to The Druid’s Keep, where he had six PBRs throughout the evening. By the fifth PBR he was hungry again, but a slow, mesmerizing version of the doctor’s voice hung in the air around him. “You’ll blow up like a balloon, Drew,” the doctor said inside Drew’s head, like all the foods he craved were his own personal Red Ryder. ‘You’ll shoot your eye out, kid.’ “You’ll blow up like a balloon, Drew.”
The following week, the doctor’s warning lingered, and Drew ate healthier than he ever had as an adult, losing five pounds in the process. Learning of his lower weight effectively silenced the doctor, so Drew went back to eating whatever he wanted whenever he wanted. The five pounds returned to his body post haste.
“Socially. Few times a week.”
“Do you smoke?”
“No.”
“How’s your diet?
“I’m not on a diet.”
“I mean, what do you eat?”
“Oh. You know. All kinds of stuff.”
“Like?”
“I don’t know . . . roast pork sandwiches, wings, cheesesteaks, pizza steaks, pepperoni steaks, soft pretzels, cheese fries, crab fries, Spanish fries, potato chips, popcorn, pizza, fried chicken, waffles, pancakes, French toast, hoagies – usually Italian, eggs, sausage, bacon, grilled cheese and bacon, donuts, pastries, mozzarella cheese sticks, chicken parm, eggplant parm, scrapple, hashbrowns, corned beef hash, corned beef sandwiches, roast beef sandwiches, the Paesano from Paesano’s – you know, it’s got brisket and a fried egg and stuff, I usually get their roasted potatoes with it, lasagna, fettuccine alfredo, stuffed mushrooms, ravioli, stuffed shells, rollatini, sausage and peppers, kielbasa, bratwurst, pierogies, dumplings, General Tso’s chicken, fried rice, lo mein, lamb saag, chicken tikka masala, doner kebab, gyros – usually lamb, souvlaki – usually chicken, burritos, tacos, taquitos, fajitas, quesadillas, chips and salsa, chips and guacamole, ribs, pulled pork, pork belly, pork chops, fried chicken. . . .”
“You already said ‘fried chicken.’”
“Oh, sorry. I guess that’s about it.”
“What about burgers and hot dogs, you don’t like those?”
“Oh yeah, those too. Cheeseburgers. Always a dog at the Phillies game.”
“You don’t eat fish?”
“Sometimes I get fish and chips at The Abbaye.”
“No fruits or vegetables?”
“. . .”
“Well, the chart says you’re overweight, but not obese. You must exercise pretty often?”
“I play a lot of basketball and soccer.”
“Listen, Drew, you’re young, but you’re gonna have to change your eating habits. If your diet is really limited to the foods you described, you’re eventually gonna blow up like a balloon and you’ll have some health issues.”
“. . .”
“And come back and see me more than once every ten years. You should get a physical every three years.”
Drew left the doctor’s office and stopped at Rustica for a couple of slices en route to The Druid’s Keep, where he had six PBRs throughout the evening. By the fifth PBR he was hungry again, but a slow, mesmerizing version of the doctor’s voice hung in the air around him. “You’ll blow up like a balloon, Drew,” the doctor said inside Drew’s head, like all the foods he craved were his own personal Red Ryder. ‘You’ll shoot your eye out, kid.’ “You’ll blow up like a balloon, Drew.”
The following week, the doctor’s warning lingered, and Drew ate healthier than he ever had as an adult, losing five pounds in the process. Learning of his lower weight effectively silenced the doctor, so Drew went back to eating whatever he wanted whenever he wanted. The five pounds returned to his body post haste.
The Weather, and Other Concerns
Walking east on Girard to the El and random thoughts bounce off the pavement like hailstones. There’s always baseball to take your mind off things.
They set aside their paper goods, glass bottles, plastics and wonder about the energy used when it all gets recycled.
Oil rigs the world over employ people and transform the planet and give us the stuff we’re built to need.
You worry about man-made disasters until tornadoes destroy Southern and Midwestern cities. Survivors count their blessings, their lives forever changed. Easy on the east coast to read the headline and watch the news and think about it for a while and feel safe ‘cause it’s not you, but what if?
She takes SEPTA to school every day but now it won’t be free. Can’t afford the daily bus fare so might just be a cutter. Parents could be prosecuted but money’s tight so they don’t know what to do.
Budget cuts. Teachers stressed about keeping their jobs and it’s last-in-first-out so the youngest ones lose. He finished his masters and got certified but when and where and who and what and how will he teach? Arlene Ackerman will make $500,000 this year, though. That’s fair.
Turning the corner by Trax where the clerk was killed during a 3:00 am robbery a while back. Two bucks buys a train ride to the ballpark. Cliff Lee’s pitching. I hope it doesn’t rain.
(Click here for a brief blog post from PhillyNow on Arlene Ackerman's 2011 compensation)
They set aside their paper goods, glass bottles, plastics and wonder about the energy used when it all gets recycled.
Oil rigs the world over employ people and transform the planet and give us the stuff we’re built to need.
You worry about man-made disasters until tornadoes destroy Southern and Midwestern cities. Survivors count their blessings, their lives forever changed. Easy on the east coast to read the headline and watch the news and think about it for a while and feel safe ‘cause it’s not you, but what if?
She takes SEPTA to school every day but now it won’t be free. Can’t afford the daily bus fare so might just be a cutter. Parents could be prosecuted but money’s tight so they don’t know what to do.
Budget cuts. Teachers stressed about keeping their jobs and it’s last-in-first-out so the youngest ones lose. He finished his masters and got certified but when and where and who and what and how will he teach? Arlene Ackerman will make $500,000 this year, though. That’s fair.
Turning the corner by Trax where the clerk was killed during a 3:00 am robbery a while back. Two bucks buys a train ride to the ballpark. Cliff Lee’s pitching. I hope it doesn’t rain.
(Click here for a brief blog post from PhillyNow on Arlene Ackerman's 2011 compensation)
Cornhole at the Keep
“What’s going on out there?” Some dude, standing in the doorway by the pool table, asked in the general direction of Garret and Joseph.
“It’s Tuesday night,” was Garret’s reply.
The dude stood there, uncomprehending, for long enough to prompt Joseph to say, “Cornhole.”
“Oh, right on,” said the dude, who grabbed a buddy of his, walked outside and around the back corner of The Druid’s Keep, and wrote their names on the white dry erase board, putting them fifth in line for a game.
Annabeth sat at a table outside with her friend, Eliza, sipping a $2 can of PBR, deep in thought.
“Are there, like, way more catastrophes nowadays than ever before? Or do we just have much faster and wider access to news, so it just seems that way?”
“I don’t know,” Eliza replied, “I think it’s both. I mean, we have nuclear power plants and deep sea oil rigs . . . they didn’t have that stuff a hundred years ago. And we also hear about everything in real time, which didn’t used to be possible.”
“It’s so depressing.”
On the two cornhole sets, one of the games moved slowly and the other hardly saw a bag miss the board. Mark and his ‘Kleenex Method,’ so called because he held the bag between two fingers and his thumb and just flicked his wrist ever so slightly, like someone pulling tissue from a box, dominated on the near court.
But it was Mark’s partner, Drew, who caused everyone to start shouting when he sunk four bags in a row to seal the game.
“Next! Bring ‘em on.” Drew called out as he and Mark slapped hands.
The Phillies defended their division lead, projected high and large onto an unpainted cinder block wall outside by the cornhole games, against the Braves while a cop watched from his car on the corner. Some people left the bar and took a walk and grabbed a slice of pizza and brought it back to the bar and ate it there. The night sky had a light blue hue to it, moonlight reflecting off the city and merging with city lights, shining down on that happy corner bar in their corner of the world.
“It’s Tuesday night,” was Garret’s reply.
The dude stood there, uncomprehending, for long enough to prompt Joseph to say, “Cornhole.”
“Oh, right on,” said the dude, who grabbed a buddy of his, walked outside and around the back corner of The Druid’s Keep, and wrote their names on the white dry erase board, putting them fifth in line for a game.
Annabeth sat at a table outside with her friend, Eliza, sipping a $2 can of PBR, deep in thought.
“Are there, like, way more catastrophes nowadays than ever before? Or do we just have much faster and wider access to news, so it just seems that way?”
“I don’t know,” Eliza replied, “I think it’s both. I mean, we have nuclear power plants and deep sea oil rigs . . . they didn’t have that stuff a hundred years ago. And we also hear about everything in real time, which didn’t used to be possible.”
“It’s so depressing.”
On the two cornhole sets, one of the games moved slowly and the other hardly saw a bag miss the board. Mark and his ‘Kleenex Method,’ so called because he held the bag between two fingers and his thumb and just flicked his wrist ever so slightly, like someone pulling tissue from a box, dominated on the near court.
But it was Mark’s partner, Drew, who caused everyone to start shouting when he sunk four bags in a row to seal the game.
“Next! Bring ‘em on.” Drew called out as he and Mark slapped hands.
The Phillies defended their division lead, projected high and large onto an unpainted cinder block wall outside by the cornhole games, against the Braves while a cop watched from his car on the corner. Some people left the bar and took a walk and grabbed a slice of pizza and brought it back to the bar and ate it there. The night sky had a light blue hue to it, moonlight reflecting off the city and merging with city lights, shining down on that happy corner bar in their corner of the world.
Up and Away
You remove your small, plastic Ziploc bag with its three ounce liquid contents from the bin on the conveyor belt and stuff it into your overstuffed carry-on bag. Bag wheeling along, you pass the stores selling Phillies and Eagles and Flyers and Sixers shirts and hats and jerseys and knickknacks en route to your departure gate. You think about your Phillies, the oldest one-name, one-city team in American professional sports history.
“He friended me on facebook after I just met him Thursday night and I barely know the guy. . . .”
“Did you see that tweet from LeBron about the Cleveland fan in Miami who. . . .”
You unintentionally overhear bits and pieces of conversation and wonder about simpler times, when people met in person to see each other’s faces and information spread by newspaper and radio.
Your plane boards and you take your seat and chew some gum and read Fitzgerald. Your eyes close and open and close again until they remain shut as you fall into a peaceful sleep.
You awaken to the sound of a loud whistle blowing. The passengers all around you rustle and bustle to deplane and you’re puzzled by their new, old fashion: men wearing top hats and suits and women like flappers with bobbed hair and hobble skirts. You nearly jump out of your seat when you realize you’re on a train, not a 747.
You stand and see that you’re dressed like everyone else and your bag is not a black nylon wheelie type, but rather a brown leather attaché case with a flap and buckles. The hundred bucks you had in your pocket is now only ten and the money looks different.
In a state of shock, you follow the crowd off the train and walk down from the once famous viaduct, the Chinese Wall, to street level and stare at buildings you know to have been demolished many years ago. Standing on Market Street, you dreamily admire what was once the world’s largest railroad passenger terminal, Broad Street Station.
“I met him at that new speakeasy you told me about last Thursday and he came calling just the very next day. . . .”
“That darn George Kelly and his Giants beat our Phillies again yesterday. . . .”
You do your best to eavesdrop on people’s conversations as you gaze in all directions, your eyes now frantically searching all corners, amazed. Something inside says you won’t be here for long, so you want to make the most of it. If given a choice, you might stay forever.
(For info and a photo of Broad Street Station, click here)
“He friended me on facebook after I just met him Thursday night and I barely know the guy. . . .”
“Did you see that tweet from LeBron about the Cleveland fan in Miami who. . . .”
You unintentionally overhear bits and pieces of conversation and wonder about simpler times, when people met in person to see each other’s faces and information spread by newspaper and radio.
Your plane boards and you take your seat and chew some gum and read Fitzgerald. Your eyes close and open and close again until they remain shut as you fall into a peaceful sleep.
You awaken to the sound of a loud whistle blowing. The passengers all around you rustle and bustle to deplane and you’re puzzled by their new, old fashion: men wearing top hats and suits and women like flappers with bobbed hair and hobble skirts. You nearly jump out of your seat when you realize you’re on a train, not a 747.
You stand and see that you’re dressed like everyone else and your bag is not a black nylon wheelie type, but rather a brown leather attaché case with a flap and buckles. The hundred bucks you had in your pocket is now only ten and the money looks different.
In a state of shock, you follow the crowd off the train and walk down from the once famous viaduct, the Chinese Wall, to street level and stare at buildings you know to have been demolished many years ago. Standing on Market Street, you dreamily admire what was once the world’s largest railroad passenger terminal, Broad Street Station.
“I met him at that new speakeasy you told me about last Thursday and he came calling just the very next day. . . .”
“That darn George Kelly and his Giants beat our Phillies again yesterday. . . .”
You do your best to eavesdrop on people’s conversations as you gaze in all directions, your eyes now frantically searching all corners, amazed. Something inside says you won’t be here for long, so you want to make the most of it. If given a choice, you might stay forever.
(For info and a photo of Broad Street Station, click here)
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