Ain't no pretension...

..at the Reading Terminal Market.

It's blue collar! The food's the real deal! And it's actually used by locals (at least on a Thurs.). The Mpls World Market on Chicago Ave feels like it belong in Mpls (neo-lib, all Heart of the Beast-kinda) and Vancouver's Market feels like it belongs there (Fancy! Polished! Pricey!), and the Terminal belongs here (not fucking around, so many choices, sales people, police, and Pensylvania Dutch wearing Sketchers -- everyone here just to mind their own business and eat. And everyone's, in general, nice.) I'm sitting on lawn furniture in a common eating area: ain't no pretension here. Except for me. Yea!

Go Phillies! Got generously taken to South Philly to watch the game at "The Devil's Den", a beer-snobbery neighborhood pub. (Delicious! They put bacon and cheese on my fries! I win!) I learned the back stories of lots of Phillie's players (good god! No wonder they make trading cards! How do you keep this s#it straight? It was like hearing someone describe a soap opera or an improv set -- but with made-up baseball terms). The bar got louder as the game went longer and everyone got drunker, and then suddenly -- BAM!!!! Phillies to the World Series! The bar explodes! So happy!! Outside, cars start honking. I hear a helicopter.

The helicopter sound continues for the next two hours.

We walk two blocks to my co-worker's friend's row house of spoooky neatness, and then walk to try and catch a bus. Philly is still communicating via happy masculine shouts out of car windows and carhorn-honking. We catch a taxi to the hotel.

I'm still not focusing. Food and coffee. But there's Pennsylvania dutch to feed me. Bring on the scrapple! (..perhaps.)

Wish me luck for tonight. (aghhhh...)

Onward.