I walked north on 3rd street. The crisp white snow was crunching beneath my feet. I looked up toward a trash bin that was visibly moving to and fro. A homeless man popped his head out of the top and said, ”Yo! We’re goin’ to the Superbowl!!!” Ahhh. Philadelphia.


I arrived on Friday at 5 PM. The temperature was around 10 degrees or so. I didn’t go out that night. Instead, I opted for the savory home-delivered delicacies offered by Pizza Rustica. I ordered half a pizza Pomodoro style — that’s tomato pie with anchovies and capers. There was also a pizza cheesesteak involved, but I decline to name names. Okay, her name was Heather. She inhaled that pizza cheesesteak like it was oxygen. Okay, I’m kidding. She ate a half of a half. Like a bird. Like a disinterested bird. Okay, she was full. Like a full bird. Okay? I can’t write my blog while the person I’m talking about is looking over my shoulder.


I’ve been instructed to finish up because ”we’re going to IKEA.” Those are magic words to me. They’re right up there with ”Take this — it’s yours” and ”feel free to do with me as you please.” On Saturday, I worked out with Justin Mudaliar, best trainer in Philadelphia (call The Old City Ironworks today for an appointment). We did upper body. I later ran 1.5 miles. I think an even six miles an hour is the ideal speed for me. It’s just below the speed where I think I may die after I’ve run a mile. Good to know.


I then went to Manayunk, PA to get a haircut. Sona, my usual stylist, was ”calling in sick” so I instead opted for someone named Jennifer who was ”also trained by the same person as Sona” (the telephone chick assured me). The haircut turned out terrible. Too much length on the top. What? Are they afraid to cut that hair? I look like a friggin’ New Kid on the Block. Sona chops it down without batting an eye, but this girl was so apprehensive. After asking her to shorten the length of the top — and not really getting a good result — I realized that I needed to cut my losses and get the ”F” out of there. The shampooer before the cut was good, at least. I feel dirty after I get the shampoo, though. They massage your head and other non-hair bearing parts of your skull when the Conditioner Stage comes into play. I guess that’s to loosen you up so when you get a crappy haircut that you don’t freak out and start taking people out.


After the cut we then decided to have lunch at a restaurant in Manayunk called Sonoma. They should rename that place Suckoma. It was terrible. Grocery store quality frozen fried shrimp and calmari. Bland dipping sauce. I ordered the pork chops and a piece of one of them was friggin’ UNCOOKED. Gross! I didn’t realize that until I’d nearly polished them off. They were bland and boring. There was barely and brocolli given. It was decent, but it seemed to have been frozen at some point in time as well. Ugh. Do everything you can to avoid eating here. Even the seating sucked. The shoved us in between two full tables of people when the entire restaurant was practically empty. The table on my right was filled with the most boring, loud, obnoxiously inert people. By inert, I mean their actions will have no bearing on the future of humanity — trust me. I got the hell out of there and paid a nice tip to the waitress (the only highpoint of the meal). I filled out the comment card and pretty much let them have it. A visit to Starbucks for my venti half-caf (H/C), sugar free vanilla (SFV), non-fat (NF), with whip (W/W), Caramel Machiotto (CM) saved the day in the end.


To top off the evening, we walked to The Ritz on 4th and saw ”A Love Song For Bobby Long” starring a depressingly miscast John Travolta. This movie wasn’t as bad as Spanglish, but the plot was so convoluted that I was often disinterested because it involved stupid people having a lot of drama with one another. I think OktoberNight said it best years ago regarding stupid people: ”The shouldn’t be allowed to breed!” So true. So, avoid ”Bobby Long” if you can. You’ll never get back those two hours again.