Where things are poppin', the Philadelphia way
These next few entries would be augmented nicely with images from a digital camera, or a flat bed scanner, but I have neither of those tools. While I have plans to rectify that (the Power-Shot S50 has had my attention lately), Superelastic Iconoclastic does not generate revenue, and fiscal pressures on the operating budget already foreshadow another difficult business cycle. So I'll do the best I can with linkage (something I don't do as often as I should because I have to hand-edit each hyperlink).

One of my favorite Hunter S. Thompson quotes posits the cure for a complicated life and encroaching weasels. I have no use for heinous chemicals, and Las Vegas is inconvenient, but I can drive like a bastard. So I put that ability to the test over the weekend, deciding on the whole, I'd rather be in Philadelphia. If I'd have followed Dr. Thompson's palliative to the letter, I'm sure my hallucinogenic experience with "bat country" would have occurred somewhere around the Meadowlands.

And as far as driving like a bastard, I was humbled by the dexterity and skill of many motorists on the Jersey Turnpike. I settled into a groove somewhere around 80 mph (to make up for those congested parts where I crawled along at 25, of course), and was getting my doors blown off. My radar detector (which, in a Hyundai, is like asking your grandfather to wear Nike Air Multiplicity F99's) detected little, even though I had it on the "Coast Guard drug boat interdiction" setting. Either New Jersey has abandoned traffic enforcement wholesale, or I forgot to plug the damn thing in.

But it did feel good to get out. I occasioned my travel to Pennsylvania to seize an opportunity to see my friend Amy and her vocal group, All About Buford, perform in someone's rec room-basement. I'd never been to a "house concert" before, and this was quite literally that. Move the furniture aside, bring some extra chairs in from the patio and the dining room, hire a band and invite your friends to come listen. It was worth it for me to see these guys, fresh from a string of triumphant big-venue performances, adjust their choreography to a space bordered by a couch, a shelf full of LP's, a 6'5" ceiling, and hot water pipes.

And, you know, "AAB Unplugged" pulled it off. Yeah, unplugged. You see, even a vocal group performing a cappella still actually needs to be plugged in. Performers rely on stage monitors in order to hear each other harmonize, follow tempo and volume changes, etc. Even though AAB didn't have that (though they did have still-up Halloween decorations hanging from the low ceiling to use for acoustical baffle), they did two strong sets and made me forget I was sitting in one of those folding nylon sling-back stadium chairs in a basement (tho my back reminded me later). My mind did wander a bit, though, thinking of the Simpsons episode where Tony Hawk hires Blink 182 to be a house band, and transposing the dialogue from that show with what I was taking in live:

"Dude, let's trash this place."
"After we get paid."
"Nice."

If God has a sense of humor, as far as AAB is concerned it was indulged last weekend, and the next time they play in Philly it will be at the Kimmel Center. I'll go to that one, too, as long as they promise not to sing "Philadelphia Freedom" (and I don't think that will be a problem). That song is perhaps the biggest piece of crap Sir Elton has ever released, and of course it was echoing in my brainpan all weekend. I finally had to run up the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art to cancel it out. Well, run for at least some of them... it devolved first to jogging, then staggering). Once I got to the top, I raised my arms triumphantly above my head (there are convenient footprints so you can stand exactly where "Rocky" stood). That worked, but unfortunately only because Elton John was drowned out by a Bill Conti trumpet fanfare.

That, and the sound of my heart abdicating my chest cavity. On this score at least, Sylvester Stallone now has my respect. I'm in the best shape I've been in for years, but not nearly enough to be ready for that. But I "did" it, damn it, and I've always wanted to, ever since I saw the movie as a kid.

"Uh, sorry, Mr. Stallone, we don't think we had the camera up to speed for that one, could you do it again?"

I wonder if there are EMT's on standby there to revive tourists like me who are fool enough to actually try that. Suppose I should have asked the concierge before I left the hotel. "Oh, yes, defib paddles are conveniently located on each landing."

Fortunately I survived, so I can relay more Philadelphia adventures to you tomorrow, and perhaps for the next few days. I haven't been writing enough here lately; not going to blow it all in one entry. Lots of visual and aural stimuli yet to transcribe. But there's much for me to do today, so I'm gonna fly now.

Tee-freakin'-hee. 11:26:26 AM    comment []trackback []