This Weekend: Cool Your Jets!

It’s Friday-like! My weekend should be one for the ages, including a Phillies game, a day trip to Delwur, some shopping with Moms, a literary magazine party (mmm-hmm-hmm-hmm), a lacrosse game, softball practice and some miscellaneously riotous fun.

But! As I prepare myself for my desk vacation, I need to say. Kids! Don’t lose your heads over the next few days. Don’t stick things in your arms. Don’t lose your woes to the bottle. Don’t call up that man-hussy who dumped you via text message. Just don’t. Be the person your dog thinks you are.

I think I’ll leave it up to lacrosse legend / meathead de luxe Gary Gait to drive the point home. Until Monday, fare thee well!


Mary Gets Tired, Writes About It

One or two of you readers has poked and prodded me recently. “WTF” you said, “Where did you go?”

I was here all along! Just busy, is all. This bee has been a-buzzing in myriad ways.

For instance!

I’ve had several bouts with The Two-Martini Curse, thereby falling asleep at Continental Midtown, L’Etage, Deuce, my house, your house, the movie house, etc. I can’t help it that I’m both worn out AND a lover of gin.

I’ve been doing my job, writing headlines and paragraphs and blogger things about all things Philly. If you really cared to find them, you could. (But here’s a good one, we worked hard, spend money in Philly please.)

Star Wars hit me in grand fashion. I’ve been to the exhibit at the Franklin Institute 2x, the first time getting touchy feely with Darth, and the second time telling a Stormtrooper to shove off. The end result of my Star Wars experience was watching 5 of the films over 2.5 days spent sick at home. Nowdays, Chewbacca is the only thing about SW I’m not sick of (mostly because he looks like my beloved dog Amos, RIP).

Sports is next. I’m about to enter full-on Phillies mode, which is some blend of sentimental, obnoxious, calculating, drunk, and full-of-hot-dogs. Traditionally I also pick up a South Philly accent after 6 p.m. So I’ve been exhausting myself with anticipation.

Also. “To Jimmy Rollins,” says Carlos Beltran, “We are the team to beat.” Pfft. PFFT. Is all I have to say to that.

Exciting! Things to think about!

I’ve also been bowling, going to black tie affairs, COOKING (see: taco assembly line, left), and reading books whose pages number in the thousands. I’m friggin tired! Sooory!

So hopefully (I guess?) you’ll be hearing from me more often. Three cheers for Pish de Luxe getting out of bed.

The Genesis of Kelliann’s

KelliannsWalking home from work on Tuesday, I made a horrifying discovery:

Kelliann’s, second home to most West Philadelphians, provider of pitchers, hunting grounds for the occasional mistake, and the world’s most authentic anti-Cowboys forum, was sans liquor license. Out to lunch. Closed. No more. I freaked out good and proper.

Now, listen here: Kelliann’s cannot go.

Where else can hordes of construction workers, Penn grad students and aging Philadelphia gentlemen mingle seamlessly? Where else can a young liberal arts grad yuck it up with a 250 lb. pimp over lagers under the watchful eye of the pool table lamp? No where else, at least not in this town of towns.

The emotional whiplash was quite strong. “Forever closed?” said one friend. “Holy crap!” said another. “I hear it’s going to be an Italian restaurant,” said a third. NO NO NO. meI thought back to my first year out of college. I was 22, unseasoned in most things, and this was where I went to watch the Iggles and blow all my money on Jack and ginger and forget that, at that point, I knew next to nothing about anything. I thought, “Maybe it’ll be a nice touch of catharsis, now that I’m so awesomely in control of my life.” Eff that. Where was I going to get a beer, a shot, and hit on by 80 year olds?

AND SO, it was to my great pleasure that I noticed a neon light a-blazing in good old KCC (Kelliann’s Country Club) yesterday afternoon. After much debate in the house over whether this was for real for real, we made the three-block, 1 a.m. trek we’ve made so many times before. And it looked like this:


We entered into a triumphant full house. Steve the bartender said, “Sup Myrrh,” as always. Little Annie smiled and gave a little wave. Ernie nodded as we passed and said, “Hello, Miss Mary.” The familiar seediness of the place was as frothy as ever, and the booze was a-flowin after that.

Now, I don’t know what happened this week. But on Saturday night, I was blessed with the opportunity to make the three-block, stumbling walk home. And that’s all that matters.

[Some further reading for yinz]