On October 30th, 2008, I got dropped off at my parking lot gate at around 12:30 in the morning. As I fiddled with my keys, I could hear shouts and whoops whizzing through the air. I put my keys back in my purse and took myself for a walk.
South Street was abuzz with activity–not the aggressive, wanton debauchery of its Friday and Saturday nights, but a joyful, flushed-face conviviality truly proving the city to be worthy of its Brotherly Love epithet. Walking west to Broad Street, I high-fived nearly every person walking the other way. Their red baseball caps were bathed in a warm amber glow from the streetlights. A girl smilingly offered me a beer from her jacket pocket. Their attitudes were infectious, and I felt a huge grin spread across my face.
The evening chill kissed my skin as I thought about how, in hard times, we find heroes in the most unlikely of figures–unlikely, because although they are undeniably talented, their acts of “heroism” didn’t exactly save anyone: Babe Ruth. Lucky Lindy. Shirley Temple. Philadelphia, a city sodden with the downtrodden, had found its heroes in a group of athletes.
I had felt a similar electricity in the air a few weeks earlier, when I’d attended an Obama rally in North Philly. And because the atmosphere between the two events was so similar, and because the election was less than a week away, I mused to myself that when I would look back on this night they would be inextricably linked in my mind. At that moment, there was no doubt in my mind that change was going to come. With that amount of goodwill in the air, how could it not?
Tags: SouthStreet, Philadelphia, Barack Obama, Phillies
didn’t like data entry as a summer office temp, and I don’t like it now as a teacher!
was always one of those books I meant to read, and now I probably should, given the recent death of David Foster Wallace. What the hell is it about? Wikipedia is no help.
I asked Stoph how his move to New York went. “It’s fine,” he responded. “I mean, I always knew I would eventually end up here, so it doesn’t feel weird.”
I do not have the same kind of focused direction, but I understand the feeling, I think I’ve always known I would end up in a city, and here I am. I think when I look back on my twenties, I won’t remember the floundering feelings of being lost and aimless, but rather the nights out: tripping down the asphalt, our laughs and shouts bouncing off the dark, silent rowhomes and storefronts; my face smeared with makeup and sweat; my nostrils and wilted hair laced with smoke; the silk of my top stained with cocktail spills; the sickly sweet aftertaste of fermented grain in my mouth and my feet blistered raw from dancing; my ears throbbing from hip hop and electro and my eyes dry and tired.
But what I will remember most are the cab rides home. Sometimes I’m with friends and we’re talking much too loudly and being far too obnoxious. Sometimes I’m with a boy and we’re being obnoxious in a different way. But the best times are when I’m alone, with the windows open and the swift cool wind sweeping back my hair as I rest my tired head against the sticky vinyl sea.
Tags: twenties, nights out, nostalgia, Stoph, city
Me: you watchin exiled!!
SD Sewell: no i was watching michelle obama
me: yo yo
5:14 PM how BADLY do you want to see sisterhood of the traveling pants 2
The Redheaded Jewess: um
so much more than dark knight
Son of Sartorialist: OMG this next month of tv is amazing
12:00 PM me: what else is on
12:01 PM Son of Sartorialist: olympics
me: oh the olympics, yeah i think i’ve heard of that
Son of Sartorialist: its in china
me: where’s that
Son of Sartorialist: your home duh