There is something attractive about desperation. I don't say that regarding individuals, but in collective wholes. Philadelphia is an amazing study in desperation. A city with a historical importance but major self esteem issues. It's regularly voted the fattest, the ugliest, the least cultured. It's hyper violent and is surely one of the dirtiest. But when a desperate city with low self esteem has even a moment to be proud, a moment of hope, it'll take that moment and act... desperate.Visitors of Philly are always confused by it's skyline. For one of the largest cities in the country laid out in dense east coast fashion, the skyline is shockingly small. This is because of the "gentleman's agreement" the lords of Philly's commerce had with the ghost of William Penn. In the early 1900's Philly's magnificent City Hall was built. The huge towering statue of William Penn dwarfed everything at a time when horses and trollies dominated transportation. The unspoken agreement was that no building would ever stand taller than the tip of William Penn's hat. In the early 1980's Penn was betrayed and Philly finally began constructing skyscrapers 80 years behind Chicago, New York and Boston. But they say it came at a high price as the ghost of Penn cursed Philadelphia for it's base betrayal. Philly's low self esteem over it's sad skyline was replaced at the exact same time with sports franchises that suddenly couldn't win a game. The Eagles, the Flyers, the 76er's and the Phillies all became frustrated, even disastrous teams. On rare occasions coming close to a championship, but never coming through. Even that fucking horse Smarty Jones got one race away from making history, only to choke at the last moment.
Then finally, someone had an idea to appease the ghost and lift the curse. Comcast centralized itself in Philadelphia and constructed a huge, immense skyscraper that dwarfed every building in the city and on the very top of the building, they placed a small statue of William Penn. Now his hat is higher than any other point in the city. This same year, the Phillies, a team with the worst record, not just in baseball, but in all of organized sports, won the world series. We all knew what was coming the night they won.
Now I don't give a shit about baseball, but I do love me a good riot. The stories of Philly fan behavior made national news. Families of Tampa Bay fans huddled in restroom stalls as psychotic mobs of Philadelphians dumped beer on their heads while trying to rip off the stall doors. The Tampa fan who escaped the mob by scaling a light post, only to get shot down by a flying Stoli bottle. The Philadelphian who was so overcome with joy that he stripped down to nothing but a tee shirt and lit his underwear and pants on fire in the street. The crowds who ended up in the hospital from clamoring onto plexi glass bus stop roofs only to come crashing through. The flipped over cabs, the demolished fire truck that was overran as it tried to respond to all the fires burning on broad street. (later the police found the the lost wallet of one of the vandals on the truck, he was a fireman) Of course half the windows in center city were smashed, stores were looted and it seemed like everyone had lost their minds.
I rounded up some friends and we trekked out into the madness. My buddy Tracy discovered a huge stockpile of bottle rockets laying on the side walk and we casually lit them off every so often as we made our way into the crowd. We got into the mess after the main blast of mob energy had been quelled by the riot police. We started up Broad street towards Center City through the wreckage in a sea of screaming high fives. Within two blocks my palms were numb and red. Grown men were standing in the middle of the street sobbing and people were swigging and passing random liquor bottles to strangers. There were burning trash fires everywhere and by the time we reached center city, the street was paved with broken glass. Groups of fans would rush over cars jumping up and down, rocking them until one would spot the cops pushing through and then they would scurry back into the undiscernible wall of faces. By the time we reached Center City, Broad street was a fast flowing river of human bodies. As we got closer to City hall there seemed to be a slowage, suddenly the people in front of us veered off to the right and we were face to face with a wall of riot police. We too, promptly veered right. Walking to the side we pushed along with the main river of people still blindly moving toward the police. After about four blocks we suddenly hit another wall of riot police coming from the other direction, sandwiching everyone into the side streets. We rolled back down to South Street where the party had long since moved on. Unfortunately the Phillies had won the night before South Street's garbage pick up. All the trash bags that had been set out were dumped everywhere. The street was completely empty and as we walked down the middle of the road, the damage and trash gave an end of the world feel. We stopped for a moment and I stood on a knocked over newspaper box and surveyed the area.
"You know, it really wasn't that satisfying." I said to my buddy Johnny Franchise.
"Yeah" he said with a sigh.
Then he reached down and picked up a tightly tied off garbage bag and bounced it into the street like a lop sided beach ball.
"Did that help at all?" I asked in a hopeful tone.
"mmmm, yeah... kinda" he said sounding a little unsure.
I contemplated his answer for a second, then stretched out my foot and casually tipped over a garbage can standing next to my perch.
We all stared at the tipped over can for a moment and then headed to Tattooed Moms for a beer.
But it didn't stop with that night. The next day was only a lull for people to nurse hang overs. That second night you could still hear sporadic horns honking through out the city. On the third day philadelphia held a parade down broad street again. 1.5 million people showed up decked from head to toe in their Phillies red, like drunken militia men called to a makeshift army. At 1 am the next morning wasted clusters of fans were still wandering the streets. On the fourth day, I was crossing Washing ave. and a car slowly rolled by. The driver was hanging a copy of the Inquirer's front page out the window with a stern focused look on his face, coasting along, just in case someone missed the news. Philadelphia was like a needy first date with low self esteem who painfully clutches at your arm because you actually paid for dinner and didn't call her a bitch all night. She knows she's going to fuck it all up but doesn't care... because she's desperate.
My Company
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