Philadelphia: May 2017

Wanna read the funny papers with your creepy Uncle Ben?

There will be no cheesesteaks in this post. There will be no Liberty Bell, no Independence Hall. I am not against any of those things but time is a real thing of which I did not have much.

I was presenting at U Penn for the weekend. The journey began on a Friday as we landed late into Philadelphia International Airport. My lady had booked us an Air BNB in the Dunlap neighborhood, walking distance to U Penn. This marked my second flight in a row where my Lyft driver was a pilot. This leads me to believe that pilots are either A) not getting paid nearly enough or B) they are thirsty to transport people. Minutes after getting dropped off we finagled the lock open and entered our studio. Entering an Air BNB is always the most stressful part for me. I always assume the lock won’t work and if it does, some dude will be chilling on the couch eating chips and watching porn like, “Woah, didn’t think you’d be here yet.” We had enough time to unpack, check for spy cameras, and go to bed.

I was up early the following morning because I was presenting early. We were going to walk to U Penn and then I was getting ditched so my lady could go and explore. When we walked out the front door I realized where we were staying. It was a rowhouse painted bright ass pink. The kind of pink that says to your neighbors, “Fuck You!” U Penn has something called the Locust Walk that cuts through the entire campus. It’s tree lined and is bordered by dorms and creepy statues of Ben Franklin. I bet this place is a nightmare after midnight when it’s flooded with drunk co-eds bragging about their keg stand prowess.

The presentation was fun and I’m glad I wore dark blue because I sweat my ass off because I’m a goddamn professional. It was at this point I was able to sneak out for a mini sight seeing excursion. Across the Schuylkill River is downtown Philly and I had my sights set on one place: the Mütter Museum.

If you have not heard of the Mütter Museum you probably hate Halloween, the History Channel, and fun. The Mütter Museum claims that it is “America’s finest museum of medical history”. That’s probably true but to me it’s known as, “That museum with all the fucked up skeletons and specimens."

Talk about a romantic way to spend an afternoon. My lady and I wandered the jam packed displays of skulls and preserved body parts pockmarked by club bangers such as the Soap Lady and the Megacolon. You wanna take a peep at Albert Einstein’s sliced up brain? They got you.

It turns out that when it comes to preserved body parts and medical abnormalities, a little goes a long way for me. Somewhere between the dead babies floating in formaldehyde and the fully articulated skeleton of a poor dude afflicted with Fibrodysplasia (don’t Google that) I was ready for a breather.

Creeping in front if Mütter's crib

The Mütter Museum has a medicinal plant garden with benches and brick paths to wander. Though not very large, it offers enough of a respite from gazing at the inevitability of your own mortality to get you back in the saddle. The only problem was in order to get to the garden we had to walk through a special exhibit featuring foods from the Civil War. There was a pile of beef jerky that ordinarily would make me salivate. After walking through the museum it looked more like a heap of mega scabs. We also took a hard pass on the hard tack.

Before exiting for good, we popped into the bookstore. My friend Cristin wrote a book called “Dr. Mutter’s Marvels” that jumped onto the New York Times best seller list. Cristin loves her fans so I made sure to write her phone number on the inside flap of every copy in the bookstore because that’s the kind of friend I am: A GOOD ONE!

Though enlightening, The Mütter Museum posed a riddle: Where does one eat after staring at the death casts of conjoined twins? My lady proposed going to a vegan restaurant and I happily took her up on the offer. Any meat product put in front of me at that time would’ve filled me with visions of operating tables and the aftermath of battlefield amputations. It’s not that I won’t eat in a vegan restaurant. I’ve eaten in plenty and I have enjoyed most of them. I’m only reluctant when I’m in a new city with famous foods. I’m not sure if she planned the timing, but if she did it was a perfect plan.

V Street calls itself “vegan street food” which is a fancy way of saying it’s the cheaper version of their high-end restaurant. We split some Korean style tempeh tacos and smoked salmon which was made out of beets and that sounds horrible but they were dope. We got some soft serve ice cream to go and walked around Rittenhouse Square.

The farmers market was popping complete with flower stalls and musicians with unfortunate facial hair. Dogs were a walking, artisanal cheese was a selling, and I had to get back to U Penn. I picked up a coffee at a Saxby’s. It looked like an independent coffee shop but they’re a Philly based chain. It was fine and not Starbuck’s so it’s all good.

The rest of the day went like this: I watched the other presentations and jumped in to help where I could while my lady sent me pictures of all the cool shit she was seeing without me. After the presentations I had enough time to saunter back to the pink house and change before dinner.

Dinner plans where put in place by my “bosses” Joey and Chu. Our dude Joaquin was one of the presenters and he was going to leave the next day to graduate from his MFA program in New Mexico. We all pretended that we had better shit to do than hang out with his sorry ass then surprised his sorry ass by all showing up to Mixto for dinner. Mixto is a Cuban/Latin American/Caribbean restaurant.

We took a Lyft there and that was when I realized I would get into 14 fights a day if I had to drive in Philadelphia. It takes about 35 minutes to go 2 blocks. I dig the look of narrow streets and old timey urban planning but my god it’s a pain in the ass to get around.

The food at Mixto was rad. I got some scallops that I’d say were cooked perfectly but I’ve only eaten them a couple times so what do I know? They were most definitely delicious. Add in some mofongo, and chicharrones and I was down for the count. Back to the Pink Palace.

The plan for Day 2 was similar to Day 1 only we’d be done with the conference by 12pm and we didn’t have to be at the airport till 6pm. With the conference over, we said our good byes and folks headed off in separate directions. Some to New Mexico, others to their homes in further parts of Pennsylvania. I had some decisions to make. I wanted to see the Italian Market, the Liberty Bell, Reading Terminal and all that jazz but I knew time was not on my side. Instead, we decided to stay west and hit up the Philadelphia Museum of Art (PMA).

The PMA is a desirable location for a few reasons. The first reason is obviously for the art and they have a lot of it. The second reason is for the stairs. These are the stairs Rocky Balboa ran up after jogging through the entirety of Philly. Plus there is a statue of Rocky posing with his arms in the air at the bottom that I had to see.

The walk down Benjamin Franklin Parkway took us past the Rodin Museum. It’s the only Rodin Museum outside of France. It was tempting to go inside but they had The Thinker and The Gates of Hell outside and free to view. It’s like going to see Hanson and they play “Mmmbop” first. Why stick around for the rest?

Bros doing bro shit.

Tragedy awaited when we got closer to the PMA. The stairs, the Rocky steps, were covered with scaffolding for a concert or something. We were relegated to climbing up the side steps. We were able to take in the awesome view but my hopes to recreate Rocky’s glory were dashed. Before we climbed the stairs we took in the statue. Although I did want a picture with it, there was a line 20 deep of dudes posing with their fists up like they were posing for a UFC poster. I felt much shame and passed.

Oh, and then there was the art. The PMA is in a building perched high along the Schuylkill River that made me feel like I was in a gladiator movie. It has tall columns, orange stone walls and steps, etc. The special exhibit was “Duchamp and the Fountain Scandal” complete with the earliest replica of the Fountain on display along with other Dada classics.

The Fountain

Heavy hitters like Van Gogh, Jasper Johns, Monet, and Picasso are represented with some of their major works. They even have a fully constructed Japanese Tea House chilling on the second floor.

They also have couches which are thoughtful because our dogs were barking after touring the museum for close to 3 hours. Earlier we had planned on going to the Eastern State Penitentiary but decided we wouldn’t have enough time to do it justice and it was closing soon anyway. The plan was to head back downtown to eat then get back to the airport. I checked my map and found a little something to sneak in before we left.

At the corner of 19^th and Vine is the Free Library of Philadelphia. Yes folks, this is how I party: medical museums, art, and libraries. But alas, this is no ordinary library. On the top floor is the Rare Books Department. It houses a bunch of first editions, medieval manuscripts, and a large Charles Dickens collection complete with manuscripts, letters, and illustrations. I was not here for the books. I was here for the bird.

Tucked away in a dark corner is a glass case holding a stuffed raven named Grip. The raven belonged to Charles Dickens who had it stuffed upon its death. Because that’s the type of shit Charles Dickens did to ball out back in the day I guess. “I’m so rich, son. Check this raven, son! This is what you get with that Oliver Twist money, son!”

So its Charles Dickens’ raven and that’s cool. What’s cooler than that is he talks about the raven in a story, that story is reviewed by Edgar Allen Poe who comments specifically about the raven, then not too long after Poe publishes “The Raven”. Grip is THE raven! He’s the raven’s raven. It’s enough to make me wanna dress in black and read Poe by candlelight or at least put on some eyeliner and listen to The Cure.

Grip and my awesome reflection

It was time for food and we were tired. I saw some low rent Philly Cheesesteak options and refused to give in. If it wasn’t coming from Pat’s, Geno’s, or Jim’s I didn’t want it. Naturally the next option was Thai food.  It was rainy and getting chilly but it wasn’t anything a bowl of hot noodles couldn’t fix. JJ Thai Food on Chestnut St, good looking out.

Our last stop was at a place called Butcher Bar where the lady ordered a fancy cocktail and I gazed at platters of steaming meat destined for tables that were not my own. Butcher Bar was decent but the clientele had an “All Lives Matter “ vibe so we dipped after our first drink.

As we were waiting to board our flight home I began to regret some of the things I missed. I knew time was limited but still so much was left undone. So many dreams unrealized. So many hopes dashed. Then I reached into the bag of crab fries I bought at the Chickie and Pete’s in Terminal B, dunked them in the white cheese sauce and felt better about my life.

Would I Go Back?

Oh, but I must. I’m a sucker for rowhouses and plenty of brick. It’s compact, walkable, and has a ton of stuff to see. I’m still mad at myself for not going to the Italian Market or Reading Terminal.

Avoid

Driving a car anywhere downtown.