Philadelphia Phever

Being a residency-challenged individual, your humble narrator can't help but keep abreast of the news. Since I'm literally covered in newspapers every night, I'd say I'm probably better read than Oprah's book club. Let me tell you, there's nothing like a bottle of hooch and the Philly Inquirer to occupy a lazy Sunday morning!

Well, I couldn't help but notice that the Philadelphia Phillies are in the playoffs again. Rah rah! Go team! And so on and so forth. I have to be honest, though - while I enjoy a good ball game as much as the next American or Japanese man, there's not much I enjoy more than tailgating in South Philadelphia. Take my word for it, a little bit of grifter conversation can go along way towards acquiring for oneself a succulent buffet of hot dogs and ale. And ole Quint has deep pockets. A good tailgate will keep me fed for a week. Two in the winter!

But what I look forward to most is that change that occurs a few hours into the scene, where most people end up looking and acting more homeless than the genuine article. Young guys stumble into each other, spilling beer all over themselves and pissing all over their cars. Women squat next to those same cars, asses akimbo. Shirts come off. Pants get soiled. There's puking. So much puking. It's like being home! Or...like being under the overhang of the Philly library's roof if you want to be an asshole about it.

I guess what I'm really trying to say is that deep down inside, we're all the same. So stop fucking kicking me the next time you happen by me sleeping on a steam vent in Fairmount on your way home from the bar! The next time, it could be you...