Chestnut and 43rd

We beat a path down the street. Cold, clear, the blue sky bounced all types of reflections off the asphalt. My hands were warmed inside my pockets and they gripped the lint left from my pants' tumble in the dryer. Market St., University City, so full of the dust that floats through the air and gives the city that flavor. The smell was fresh like a warm pretzel covered in salt. Salt that was sprinkled with grime.

I was drawn back from the sidewalk by the vision of a seemingly abandoned church. We back peddled to get a full view, thus tipping off a car alarm curbside. The deli/liquor store across the street was not quite awake. I guess brunch is not on the itinerary. Folks climb over that noontime witching hour and pop the suds. Maybe a Yard's Brawler, some type of Pale Ale, a Schmidt's, maybe a PBR or Ballentine's. Just something to coat the throat and get that flow on. And we float on down the sidewalk, tasting the visuals offered by the street vendors. My eyes fell nostalgic on a crate of old record albums. Not too old, though. They reminded me of my youth. Kool and the Gang, The O'Jays and other sounds of the seventies. Straight reminded me of nights going to my Grandma's when my folks were getting ready to step out. Beautiful times. Now, I share these traditions with my daughters...shipping them to grandparent's houses so wifey and I can step in the name of love.

Each pace gets entertainingly closer to full enjoyment of Philly. I get tied closer to its core with each additional venture into the belly of history, culture and the ensuing romance. I have a partner today. Isabella, my daughter, in some type of way, gets what I preach from the pulpit at the head of the dinner table. She shruggingly listens to the vibe I set out over top of the instant mashed potatoes and the glasses of water, one glass filled with beer (something cheap). Just that in my glass gives her the innuendo that I am self-made on the path to more self-making. I am a work in progress, hopefully working toward the positive end. I got alot riding on this life now. Two daughters, a wife, a home, a little dog that has a police record. So, when I wax romantic about the streets of Philly, the heads cock to the side like a canine trying to fine tune what it is perceiving through sound. My kids listen, try to make a head or a tail out of my thoughts. But, now, as the two of them are finding the adventure in Philly for themselves, they are beginning to understand my reverence for the streets, for the cut. Definitely for the folks who make Philly their home base.

So, from the dinner table to Chestnut and 43rd, the in between has given Isabella the curiosity to press on when I take her on a private walking tour of Brotherly Love. There is much to be learned from the skyline to the cracks in the pavement and every grimy/shiny point in the middle of all that beauty.

Market and 43rd...The Beer King

I call this small bit of writing "The Black Plastic Bag Sessions." By my side, Isabella plays witness to the powers that make a city revolve and twist and get turned all the way live. These small tributes to an electrified city are very giving when I see them through her eyes. She and I found the immaculate Beer King on the Southeast corner of Market and 43rd. The joint was living and breathing with a pulse of an eagle soaring through the street. Fly Eagle Fly. The owner is protected by a clear sheet of bullet proof glass. I ask for a can of High Life and it is stoically handed around a 90 degree angle turn on the counter. A small opening in the glass and the owners' hand is exposed for a second to the loyal customers. My can is wrapped in a black plastic bag. The Southeast corner is a hot spot, the graffiti is written on the wall as tribute to all those beer cans walking the streets and hidden in the black plastic and brown paper.

circa 2014