Tomorrow I leave for the UK on a work trip. I'm usually really psyched that I get to travel for work, but I'd rather just enjoy the long thanksgiving weekend. I swear I'm not the malcontent they make me out to be. Yawny yawn. Anyway, today was divided between Home Depot and Lowes. We bought kitchen cabinets. Hoot! Then we ate a dinner of meatballs at the new IKEA, came home and caulked our windows. Exciting times in the life of an almost 29-year-old! I need to pack . . . more soon dear reader, always more.

On Friday I saw Holly Golightly at the Khyber and thought she smiled at me. I really liked her opening bands but can't remember their names. One of them sounded something like the Wuzzles. Wiggles? Woggles? Doesn't matter I guess. Hooray for music.

So even though things ended badly, Beagle and I had a good number of liberal wackos over our house on Election Night, and we decorated the house entirely in red white and blue. Crepe paper is fun! We even made our bathroom into a "voting booth" and attached a blue curtain to the door. I made a patriotic Jello cake -- what is more American than Jello I ask? and some crazy cats brought a plate of small baby cupcakes with little flags atop each. See, we love America too! Nevermind the fact that I've asked my boss for a tranfer to our UK office, and discussed a possible run for the Canadian border. Are there Taco Bells in Canada? Because that might tip the scales...in favor of living there forever! Ho ho ho.

Did you know that there is a group of liberal unicorns on the stampede? Yes, it's true. Unicorns Against Bush, hear ye! One horn, one voice!

I have an embarassing story to tell. Last weekend, Beagle and I went out to the burbs. Driving around, I noticed a disturbing number of Bush/Cheney lawn signs. Some houses had numerous signs facing different directions. I don't know what prompted me to do this but on our way home I jumped out of the car, ripped a bunch of signs out of the ground and threw them in my trunk. Something inside me stopped this manaical behavior when I realized how embarassed I'd be to get caught, or worse, chased. So much for activism. For a fleeting moment I felt like a crazy teenager. Then I read this article and now see it was just my inner realtor lashing out.

Anyhoot, I'm super excited because tomorrow we are going to super beautifulLancaster to pick apples, run through a corn maze and sit in my friend K's hot tub! Super hooray!

The accordion guy lived in a ramshackle shack with two cute Dobermans. K asked me to come in with her and I figured it would be a tossup as to which was safer: sitting in a car on deserted street or a standing in a stranger’s house. We went up together.

Now at this point, my thoughts wandered to, “what kind of guy with an accordion lives here?” Because his email name was “hobbit” we envisioned a Tolkien-inspired modern-day mantoad, maybe Elijah Wood-esque, maybe the geeky guy from Latin class or perhaps just a shortie with furry feet. We had no idea what to expect.

Hobbitman opened the door and after awkward greetings, let us in. Now I’ve never seen a serial killer, but I would imagine it would be this guy: snivelly, dirty, intensely rat-like. In the entryway stood a table filled with rusty tools. The flee instinct almost took over and I had one of those “this could be it” moments. He locked the door and stood against it, barring our exit. Tension mounted and finally K said, “so you have an accordion” which prompted him into action, and he went through the kitchen into his living room. In the kitchen I saw a Barbie doll (clothed, thankfully) and what looked like a rusty wooden leg propped up against the sink cabinet.

The accordion lay on the table. K asked the hobbit to play it. I looked at her like, what? and stood back, trying to breathe normally and thinking pleasedontletmedielisteningtosqeezeboxmusic
pleasedontletmedielisteningtosqeezeboxmusic
pleasedontletmedielisteningtosqeezeboxmusic

He strapped it on and attempted some chords. He also said that earlier he was in his yard, “monkeying around” and playing it for the dogs. I believe he said “monkeying” twice. My brain felt like it might explode but K asked some questions, said something about a transvestite, and made the deal. dollars. But my dear friend only has and asks the hobbit for change. He of course can’t find any and goes upstairs, telling us “don’t steal anything” on his way up. I couldn’t tell if he was being ironic or not.

As soon as he is out of earshot, I tell K that we have got to get the fuck out of this place right now. I laughed, lest my eyes start bleeding because of the fear, but thought of the numerous ways I could make a weapon out of the dog bowl. But no need. He comes back downstairs, armed with . . . and a bottle of Vaseline Intensive Care. “Rub the lotion on your skin . . .bitches!” Just kidding. He only had the moola. We bid our kindest audieu and scurried back across the bridge. Philadelphia never felt so safe.

So just the other day there was a fight on our street between a sloppy, foul-mouthed fat kid, and his short smartass nemesis. They talked all kinds of smack last week, and fattie pulled a knife. So we heard commotion on the street and stepped out. It was a replay, except this week the mothers got involved. Both kids moms, our neighbors, outlying moms walking by -- everybody got their say. So how was this altercation solved? The moms let them fight! I couldn't believe it. But their attitude was, "let them work it out." Because fighting does just that, right? And when the smartass kid lost his sneakers in the hullabaloo, this was apparently okay. Win some fights, lose some Adidas. The moms debriefed me post-scuffle. One said, "I'm wearing the wrong sneakers for all this fighting," referring to her k-swiss, "I should be wearing my hi-tops." I think I nodded, but my internal urban sense-maker reeled. Is there a particular kind of sneaker for watching your kids beat each other up?

On going: my travel countdown has begun. Next month I return to Chicago to receive training, and stomp around old haunts. Hooray, hooray!

Tonight we went to the stadium in Camden and watched the Riversharks play some minor league b.ball. Even though I've heard Camden's a shithole, I haven't seen it, as the stadium/downtowny area seemed really nice. Of course, we did hear what sounded like a gunshot while trying to find 676, so who the hell knows. It was nice to see Philly from afar and think it looked beautiful. I say this after my diatribe last week, and numerous other disheartening stories of the apathetic jackasses that live here. So sad. I will not succumb though! I save that for another venue.

And so in lieu of freaking out about Philly and the RNC this week, I give you this article about political ill communication.

Here's the deal. Every other day or so, my little block fills up with the most ungodly amount of garbage. And apparently I'm the only asswipe who cares enough to sweep it up. Since January I've kept tabs on how many Acme bags get filled up with my neighborhood's chicken bones, Rite Aid prescription refills and wonton soup containers. And the number is sick. I've cleaned up approximately 82 bags of crap. Last Thursday (day after trash day is always the worst) I even filled up our industrial-sized garbage can.

So, in addition to keeping a trash journal (filled with polaroids of my more interesting pick-ups), I'm also re-instituting what I call the Philadelphia Project whose subtitle is my neighborhood will give a damn, eventually. Currently it entails bombarding the city with sanitation complaints. But I think I’m moving on to bigger prospects. I mean, what can my city council person do for me? And who can answer my burning question: why the fuck aren’t there any trash bins in south Philly? There should be one at every bus stop. Honestly, you have no idea what a difference it would make. And trees! Why is it that nice blocks are green blocks? Can we get some of them around here?

But I digress. There have been small successes. After sending 6 of these forms in, they finally removed two abandoned cars from my block. And the absentee owner of the pigeon-infested shithole on the corner finally sold out to a contractor. And Beagle and I are fixing up a little rowhome around the corner. Baby steps are important. Which reminds me of the book The Tipping Point which basically says how seemingly small actions can have a tremendous effect at changing perceptions. So I’m keeping my fingers crossed that all of this may make a difference some day.

"There are good Philly days and there are bad Philly days." This is my general response when asked if I like living here. And the answer, when things are clean, when men stop spitting on the sidewalk, when I don’t have to sidestep corncobs and condoms and little plastic juice bottles in the street, is generally, yes.