Things to Do When You're In Philadelphia

Just got back last week from a trade show in downtown Philadelphia. I'd lived in a Philly suburb when I was a kid, and had some fond memories, none of which were jogged on this visit to the Wyndham Hotel and Pennsylvania Convention Center. But... a couple sights seen and commented upon:

- The Phillies Game: A few of us stole away to see a perfectly dull contest between the Phillies and the St. Louis Cardinals. My takeaways: If you forgive the fact that they built it in an industrial park across the street from a Toyota plant, it's a really nice place to see a ball game. Brick and old-timey, without being fakey like Camden Yards. Downside: Waiting in line way too long for a Geno's cheesesteak that tasted vaguely of gasoline. A hot dog and much gastrointestinal distress ensued.

- The Franklin Institute: When I was 12 years old or so, the highlight of any weekend was a trip to the Franklin Institute -- a huge, gorgeous science museum. Giant Ben Franklin stature. Lots of buttons to push, balls sliding this way and that, titan-scaled human organs to clamber about and a 707 jet sitting right out front. So I had an hour, and there it was down the street, so off I trudged.

Let's just say this: If I was still 12, I would have loved it. I think. Too much space taken up by an IMAX theater, not nearly enough physics demonstrations (I know, I'm a geek), and for a giant building, it was just small. The giant heart was still there, but otherwise, too little 'wow' to make my heart leap as it did back then.

- Gastrointestinal Distress: After the show ended, I decided I couldn't wait in line at Rick's for a cheesteak at the Reading Terminal Market, which looked like the Minnesota State Fair dropped into the middle of the urban core, so I enjoyed a delicious gyro and Coke. But I was still disappointed in the Geno's cheesesteak experience from the ballgame the night before, so I stopped at a little deli/market near the hotel. Provolone cheesesteak with onions and another Coke served by a friendly Asian couple. Delicious. More gastrointestinal distress ensued, but I flew home happy.

- Philadelphia International Airport: The Northwest gate was easily the worst airport experience I've had in a long time. One bar, utterly packed, understandably. A fast-food court with dirty and extremely limited seating. Only one small magazine stand in the gate area. And an hour-long wait at the gate for my plane to arrive once it landed, and then another hour on the plane once I boarded.

- Cheesesteaks: On the plus side, lack of decent food at the airport ensured that I didn't stuff down another cheesesteak. Let me just note that I love cheesesteaks. One of my best college memories was a cheesesteak tour of Philadelphia with my friend The Cruiser ... we hit Jim's ... walked South Street ... and then finished at Pat's for the express purpose of dripping Cheez-Whiz on Passyunk Avenue. They were all very delicious.

But where I was stuck, cheesesteak culture was a little out of whack. How long is it acceptable to wait in line for a cheesesteak? If you're not at an original location (i.e., the ballpark), can the Geno's or Tony Luke's cheesesteak be delicious enough to be worth it (in my experience, I'd say no to Geno's -- as the Cruiser would as well, if I could find him)? Was it only tourists and convention-goers who wait 30 minutes or more for a bite of a Rick's steak? Questions to ponder another time, I suppose.

I'm feeling gastrointestinal distress just thinking about it.

My Literary Pedigree

I read The Atlantic pretty religiously each month (in other words, mostly on the toilet) and it always leaves me feeling both edified and inadequate. It's the book reviews. The depth of knowledge required to write -- let alone read -- a book review for The Atlantic is unnerving, even frightening.

This month, Christopher Hitchens takes on the novel A Hero of Our Time, by Mikhail Lermentov.

Who?

In his review of this newly translated book, Hitchens expresses a passing -- even deep -- knowledge of early-to-mid 19th Centrury Russian literature and culture, and strong enough familiarity with the author to write as if many Atlantic readers may well have picked up on Lermontov, who died in the 1840s. Maybe he's right. And should I now feel shame for choosing (and mostly ignoring) "Irish Lit" over "19th Century Russian Lit" back in college?

Now, Hitchens is a confirmed, and possibly reformed, leftist. So his Russophilia can be excused... but the man -- and most of his fellow Atlantic writers -- are a damn sight better read than I am. I'm learning to accept that. Frankly, I spent most of my high school years studying Marvel Comics circa 1977-1984 and -- through college -- Classic Science Fiction of the 1940s-1980s (Asimov, Heinlein and Pohl).

And perhaps if it came to that, I could write rings around Hitchens and his ilk if there were a call to review Heinlein's Job: A Comedy of Justice , the Dark Phoenix Saga or "Herbie the Robot".

You have to have something to hang your hat on... You can run from it, or you can embrace it... But...but... is there any money in it?

Anxiety Attack

It starts with feeling in the pit of your stomach, like you want to throw up but you know it's just not going to happen. But it lingers, and you just wish you could, or you would... you know...vomit...just to get it over with. But you don't because you're not supposed to do that, right? Unless you have to. Vomiting should not be a choice.

So you go on, paralyzed. You know your job, you know what you're doing. You could kick ass and take care of everything on your work plate in two hours. If you could just start. That's all. Just start.

But you can't start. You only can stare. You can't relax and do something else, because then you wouldn't be doing your job. But you can't do your job either, so you just sit...and stare. And click and click and click.

So you update the blog that no one reads. To get yourself typing, to get y0urself thinking. To limber the fingers and give the brain somewhere to spill its excess...brain stuff. And you wonder why your doing this? Why you're pretending to write for the public, when a private journal would do just fine? You wonder if anyone, besides the three people who you've told about the blog will ever read this? You strategize about how to draw readers to you ... should you tell more friends? Post the blog in the online forums that might as well be a row of shot glasses filled with Grey Goose? Why?

You hope, perhaps, that someone will read this...that someone will understand. That someone will say it's OK and rescue you from this trap. That someone will say, "follow me -- this is where we're going to go...and we'll do great things there."

But there are no rescuers. You know you can only rely on yourself, and if it's not your own decision, your own idea, then, really, it has no meaning for you.

That would be just like you, right?

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And now, back to our regularly scheduled humor ...