Wednesday, January 27, 2010

Rising Tide

Saturday was a perfect Philly day. It was one of those days that causes you to smile smugly and nod softly when some asshole from the suburbs starts prattling on about how dirty the city is and all the crime and whatever other misguided notions they've gleaned from watching Action News between trips to the Wal Mart and the big box, feedbag crap restaurant where they stuff their face. You smile because you know days and nights like this exist in Philly.

I spent the afternoon dicking around with Short and Curly. We trucked down to the market, played with our cameras and talked about poop. We have a very childish friendship. I got myself a Lime Jarritos and a pretty awesome churro at this weird little Mexican bodega/bakery near Washington - it's the one with the melty cakes in the windows. After the market, we decided to walk over the to Ritz and pop in on whatever movie was starting when we got there.

I got a call from Dr. Awesome as we walked down South Street. She wanted to meet up after the movie and I was obviously stoked. It was shaping up to be a nice little Saturday. We saw "An Education". It was meh, mostly because I couldn't get past Peter Saarsgard's shit English accent.

Dr. Awesome was waiting outside after the movie and I bid adieu to Short and Curly. The good Dr. and I walked from 5th and Market up to the Barnes in Rittenhouse and did some book shopping. After that, we went to the Snack Bar for booze and cheese and all was right with the world. We got our tab and walked over to McGlincheys. We played paper football there for a while and drank whiskey. Though, I should point out that I dished out an ass whupping at paper football the likes of which hasn't been seen in years.

We needed food. Good Dog was too crowded, so we decided to pack it up and head to my neighborhood. We hopped into a cab and were a block or two on our way when I remembered the bottle of wine in my hand, the spanish byob nearby on South and my torrid romance with sangria. "Dood, let's go to the spanish place on South. They can turn this shit into sangria." I was feeling articulate. The cab turned around and we rolled into Apamate just as a party of two was getting up.

After dinner we walked over to Bob and Barbara's. I don't know what has happened to that place, but it looks like a Drexel dorm threw up on it. It's chock full of kids these days. And my god, the sartorial decisions some of these children make are enough to make you fear for the future of this fine country. We ordered more drinks and Dr. Awesome made me slow dance with her to the jazz band. I protested, but I was kinda loving it. After a bit, I was over feeling like the oldest person at the bar and convinced her it was time to leave.

We headed outside and it looked like we were in for one of those softly boozey nights where you're full of food and you wanna hug kittens in front of a fire while you listen to recordings of Shel Silverstein poems.

But then the universe launched a cascade of shit specifically to remind me that I am one of its favorite playthings.

We were standing on the corner of South and 15th when I realized I didn't have my murse anymore. Normally this wouldn't have a been a big deal, but my camera and ipod were in it. I started to freak out, so we hightailed it to Mcglinchey's. I was pretty sure I didn't have the bag at the restaurant and they were closed anyway. I powerwalked the three blocks up 15th st while Dr. Awesome tried to allay my fears about losing my stuff. I'm pretty sure she was laughing at my ridiculous speed walk form too, god knows I would have been.

My bag was at the bar. I breathed a sigh of relief, profusely thanked the barkeep and was happy that any hiccups for the night were over. Yep, any and all hiccups done and done. Right.

The cab ride home was uneventful. It wasn't till I went back out in search of Gatorade and some other crap that I got smacked right in the face with a bit of Philadelphia's incongruous provincialism. My first stop was the 24/7 mart on my corner. I may have to have a chat with the owners of that joint, as with a name like that, one may have the crazy thought that they'd be open past fucking midnight on a Saturday. Being that midnight on a fucking Saturday clearly falls within a few of the 24 hours that occur seven days a week. But, they were not open. Fine, I would cruise over to fourth street. The convenience store over there had to be open. It was not. By now I was starting to get a little annoyed, but I knew the Wawa on second would be open, and it was only a few more blocks out of the way. Whatever, it was fine. I walked up there, got the gatorade and some other stuff and walked home.

I knew the fire would be lit, I would be able to hug a kitty and maybe I could download some recordings of Shel Silverstein poems. Life was wonderful again.

I dropped off the gatorade in the living room, breezed by the Dr. and headed upstairs. As I walked into the bathroom I heard something from downstairs, "I think something may be wrong with your toilet".

Meh, water level looked ok to me, but there was a floating kitty turd I'd dumped in there before I headed out. I flushed.

Then I panicked. The water level was going the wrong way, coming up instead of going down. Swirling. I pulled off the resevoir cover and jerked the little lever up and down. I'm not sure what I was hoping to accomplish with that, but it did nothing. The water crested the bowl and spilled out onto floor. I threw towels down and started talking to the toilet: "c'mon man, stop. There's a girl downstairs I like, you can't do this to me now. C'mon. Fuck toilet. Stop. Please."

The toilet didn't listen.

Soon enough there was a thin film of water on the bathroom floor. This sucked but the towels were doing a pretty good job of soaking up the water. Disaster averted, or so I thought.

While all of this was going on, Dr. Awesome was trying to make sure I knew that she didn't clog the toilet. I knew she didn't but I was a little preoccupied with trying to stem the tide to respond. It was only when she called up the stairs again: "Greg, there's water coming through the ceiling".

Fuck me.

I walked downstairs to see water bleeding into my closet. And with that water I watched Shel Silverstein, my warm belly full of booze and happiness and the warmth of the fire melt away. My kitty even ran upstairs.

I'm being melodramatic here, of course. It was only water. I cleaned that shit up and got on with my life. The fire was awesome, the booze was awesome and Chester snuggled up like a champ.

The next morning I got up, picked up some coffee and walked to the hardware store. There's just no way to casually walk through town with a hangover holding a plunger in one hand and a coffee in the other. Any which way you slice it, you look like a guy who's getting ready to do some serious damage.

A toilet overflowing is just never fun, but in the end it did little to put a damper on a most excellent Saturday and Sunday ruled pretty hard too. I just have to make sure I have my plunger at the ready next time I drop some kitty turds into the toilet.

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