Why Philadelphia Sucks, Featuring The Mystery Of Barry - 04/26/07

I was recently given the opportunity to go the wonderful city of Philadelphia on a business trip. When I say "business trip", I'm making this sound much more important than it actually was. I was flown there for two days so that I could learn how to use an instrument that measures lung capacity, which, on the surface, sounds perfectly reasonable, until I explain that the way this device works is by having the patient blow into it. That's all. That's all you do. I mean, sure, it's all computerized, and reports the data directly back to the company and maybe fries an egg or something just for fun, but that's still all there is to it. The patient takes a deep breath, then exhales. I wasn't about to turn down two days off from work to travel, so I wisely didn't point out the sheer stupidity of flying someone relatively far away and putting them up in a nice hotel just so you could show them how to blow into a tube, and I soon found myself in the middle of the City of Brotherly Love.

Philadelphia is a dirty city. I apologize to anyone reading this that's from there, or lives there, or simply appreciates it in a historical sense. But it's fucking filthy. And I don't mean it's dirty in the sense that there's trash everywhere, because there's surprisingly few cigarette butts, fast food wrappers, or any of the other usual debris you see rolling around the streets of a major metropolitan area. It just has this sense of underlying griminess, a sort of weird filmy substance that seems to coat everything. I know that it's old; really old, but I've never seen a city that's been around for hundreds of years actually look like it's been around for hundreds of years to such a great degree.

Due to the totally useless nature of my trip, I had a bunch of time to kill, so I decided to wander the streets to see what I could see. I'd been there in the past with my dad, but that was back when I was a lot younger, and at the time I was much more concerned with making sure my Optimus Prime action figure stopped Serpentor's diabolical plot of world domination than my father's earnest attempts to get me to appreciate my nations history. The hotel that I was staying at was on Market Street and literally a block over from City Hall, so I figured that such a central location would be an ideal place to start my adventures.

But when I got about halfway there, I realized that I didn't have any specific destination in mind to go next. The hazy recollections of my youth weren't going to help, and I had done absolutely no research whatsoever on potential tourist spots prior to boarding the plane. I seemed to recall that there was a large bell somewhere that was important, and I think the Declaration of Independence was transcribed here after a burning Englishman spoke to Ben Franklin or something. Oh, and I remembered that part in "Rocky" where Sylvester Stallone ran up a bunch of stairs and screamed something to the heavens about winning an arm-wrestling championship that was also somehow synonymous with his son's love. Or maybe I'm getting my movies mixed up, I don't know.

I also apparently had to, at some point, purchase and consume a cheesesteak.

Cheesesteaks are another reason I'm glad I don't live in Philadelphia. Can you imagine what it must be like to have a greasy sandwich be the most recognizable thing associated with your city? I know, I know. There's history here too. But that's actually the sad part. I can guarantee that if you walked up to a group of five random strangers anywhere else in America and said the word "PHILLY!" followed by an expectant pause, four out of five of them would respond (after the awkward silence brought on by having a stranger yell things at them) with the words "CHEESESTEAK!" And I guess you could argue that this is because most Americans are ignorant of their own history and more concerned with eating mass quantities of oily food, but still. I guess it's not entirely our retarded populaces' fault; the city itself doesn't do anything to dispel this perception. There's literally a cart on every single street corner selling "Authentic Philly Cheesesteaks". They're all over the place. I was in the bathroom at the airport washing my hands when all of a sudden, a surly man in an apron came out of nowhere and handed me a piping hot sandwich smothered in cheese and onions. I wasn't hungry, so I had to refuse, but then he looked like he'd get mad if I didn't tip, so I had to give him some money, but all I had was a five, and I didn't want him to have to get change out of his little basket by the sink, so I just gave him the whole five…. It was awkward. I suppose it could be worse; someone could run up and say "PHILLY!", to which everyone would immediately respond with "GOPHER FUCKING!", but it's still not something I'd want the world to immediately think of when someone mentions my city. And before anyone brings up the fact that when someone says "Atlanta", the first thing that comes to people's minds is "racist hillbillies", I've got two words for you: Fuck off. We have chicken and waffles too.

Oh, so yeah. I bought a cheesesteak from a vendor on my way down to Market Street. It was tasty. Not mind blowing or anything, but you know. Good. Sorry.

I got to City Hall, and began to take stock of my situation. I had no map, which was bad, but also had no real idea where I was going, which was good. This way, I rationalized, I couldn't get lost. Not that the map would have really helped. As anyone who's ever tried to go anywhere with me can attest, I suck with directions, possessing absolutely no internal compass whatsoever. For example, the first week I worked at Emory Hospital, one of the janitors found me underneath a staircase in the basement crying because I'd gotten lost for two days and couldn't find my way out. Which may sound ridiculous, but in my defense, it's a big hospital and I was new. I'd also eaten the bag of breadcrumbs I was planning to use as a trail marker for lunch, but you can't blame me for that. Breadcrumbs are delicious.

Despite this handicap, I still love exploring big cities; because while I may lack any sort of basic navigational skills, I make up for this deficiency by having absolutely no shame whatsoever in asking nearby strangers for directions. Seriously, it doesn't matter. Homeless people, old people, bus drivers, street mimes, whatever. Well, maybe not mimes. Clowns really freak me out, and a mime is basically a chalk-white clown wearing a beret that smiles insanely and doesn't speak while contorting their bodies to make it look like they're trapped in an invisible box, all of which is absurdly creepy. So usually when I see a mime, I've either screamed in terror and run away or reflexively bashed them in the face with a shovel before I can finish asking where a particular street is. Fucking mimes. In contrast, I find that homeless people, as long as you give them a dollar or some change or something first, are especially helpful. I mean, it makes sense; they've got nothing else to do besides wander around a city, so it's to be expected that they have an intimate knowledge of how to get from point A to point B. It does make me a little suspicious, though, when their directions include trips through dark alleys or stopovers at abandoned warehouses, but whatever. I'm inherently trusting, and those times that I've followed a hobo's directional advice and gotten mugged are probably just coincidences.

But thankfully, the city of Philadelphia is kind enough to have provisions set up for idiotic tourists such as myself. While I was throwing away the remains of my cheesesteak, I happened to notice something strange. Emblazoned on the top of the trash receptacle was what appeared to be a diagram of some sort. Intrigued, I looked closer, thinking maybe I'd been fortunate enough to stumble across directions that would lead me to a garbage pirate's hidden cache of gold and jewels. Sadly, it turned out to only be a map of the greater downtown area.

Trashcan Map



I'm kind of on the fence about the practical utilities of these trashcan maps. On the one hand, I suppose people are more likely to throw away whatever refuse they're holding as they come closer to figure out where they are, which helps keep the city clean. On the other hand, I was forced to spend an inordinate amount of my time wandering through Philadelphia pausing to stare at the tops of filthy garbage cans, which I'm sure looked to any passers-by like I was trying to carefully pick out the tastiest piece of trash before I reached in and grabbed it. Although if you think that's embarrassing, you should have seen the looks I got when I took out my camera and snapped a picture of one. Even the French tourists were pointing at me and laughing.

So after holding my breath and carefully perusing the helpful trashcan map, I decided on a few vague destinations. I'd go down to the Historic District and wander around until history got boring, and then if I had time, I'd try to find the stairs Rocky immortalized. I wasn't sure exactly where in the city that scene took place; but I figured that due to the massive number of posters and coffee mugs I'd seen plastered with Sylvester Stallone's stroke-victim face, Philadelphia was sufficiently proud enough the movie was shot there to put a gigantic neon walkway or something equally classy that would lead me straight to where I needed to go.

I won't bore you with a description of the Historic District; it was pretty much what you would expect it to be. All the places of note had enormous lines of screaming schoolchildren being chaperoned by surly adults or vacationing families trying to pretend that looking at an old bell was a totally awesome way to bond that I didn't feel like waiting around. I took a bunch of pictures, but these were the only ones that I thought were worth mentioning, and that's only because I have a weird imagination.

Tomb of Franklin! Danger: Mummies!



This is the solemn and distinguished resting place of famed inventor and statesman Ben Franklin. It was nice; it's tucked away in this quiet, unassuming little cemetery and is actually the only part of the entire city that isn't covered with huge statues of Ben holding a kite or inventing science or whatever. The one thing that did intrigue me, though, was that the whole gravesite was absolutely littered with pennies. I understand that it's symbolic and all because of his famous adage that "a penny saved is a penny earned", but he's also on the backside of the hundred, and I didn't see any of them fluttering around. I guess that we as Americans are willing to honor our forefathers by depositing monetary totems dedicated to their memories on their gravesites, but only as long as it's nothing too extravagant. The Egyptians would laugh at us. I threw a quarter down to remind him that even though he electrocuted himself in the name of scientific enlightenment, people still hate his useless little coin and think Washington was way better because he founded America and is worth 24 cents more. Slightly worried that his corpse might still be energized from his experimentation and angry enough to come back to life and try to eat my brains, I quickly dashed around the corner, only to be confronted with this:

Tranny Franklin


See what I mean? Franklin mania. He's everywhere. This one, though, is unique. Most of the statues differ only in what he's doing; the costume remains relatively unchanged: tasteful pantaloons, stylish doublet to hold in the paunch, maybe a tri-corner hat for the ladies. But it looks like this one was commissioned after he died, probably by someone who didn't like him very much and thought it would be funny to have Franklin commemorated in drag.

Next, on to Independence Hall. Once again, there was a long line even though the place was about to close, so I contented myself with wandering around the outside and taking pictures. And I'm glad I did, because I found what is, without a doubt, the best statue in all of Philadelphia. You would think that in front of a building of such importance there would be a statue of George Washington, or Thomas Jefferson, or maybe even Jesus or Santa Claus. But no. Standing proudly outside in the main courtyard, the site where our great nation came together to denounce the tyranny of the hated British and forever establish our democratic freedom, was a statue of "Barry". That's all it said. "Barry".

"Barry"



I was dumbfounded. I mean, this guy was obviously someone important; why else would anybody waste their time carving his likeness out of a huge piece of rock? My mind began to furiously scan through all of the old history lessons I never paid attention to in school, searching for some reference to "Barry". Unfortunately, I soon realized that my years of binge drinking had reduced my scholastic memories to nothing but vaguely stylized Fraggle Rock reruns, which while amusing, were less than helpful. I had to do something. Any minute now, some Japanese tourist was bound to walk up next to me and start asking questions that I would have no idea how to answer. Why wasn't there any more information included besides his first name? Did he win some kind of pre-revolution raffle, where they carved a statue of whatever townsperson hated the British the most? Was he the first person killed when the war started, and no one bothered to get his full demographics? Maybe he was George Washington's retarded brother-in-law, and Martha made her husband erect the statue so that Barry would stop hiding her powdered wigs and playing with George's wooden teeth. No, those were all stupid. Then, out of the corner of my eye, my worst fears were realized: a tiny Asian man with a huge camera and multiple children obediently trailing behind him was approaching. He had the determined look of someone who would be dissatisfied with anything less than a full explanation of Barry's life and role in the history of America, something I was obviously woefully unprepared to relate. Thinking quickly, I pointed behind him and screamed "LOOK OUT!! GODZILLA!!", to which he responded "GODZIRRA?! RO NO!! RUN FOR YOUR RIVES!!", before sprinting off in the opposite direction. It was a close call, but I was safe. I turned back around to ponder the inscrutable riddle that was "Barry". I looked at him from the left. I scratched my head, then looked at him from the right. Still nothing. Sighing in exasperation, I trudged around to the back of the statue, thinking that maybe his ass might hold the key to unraveling his historical mystery. And sure enough, there it was. A small plaque, on the completely wrong side of the statue. It turns out that "Barry" was actually "John Barry", the founder of the U.S. Navy. That was it. How fucking boring is that?

Thoroughly disgusted, I vowed to make my way to the final destination of my pilgrimage and turned my rage onto a middle-aged guy dressed like Paul Revere and waving a bell on one of the street corners:

Me: "Hey, jackass. I'm looking for that place the boxer with Down's Syndrome ran up a bunch of stairs in that movie about boxers. Also, I think Mr. T was there at some point. In the movie, not at the stairs. Am I going in the right direction?"

Fake Paul Revere: "Verily, young master, you are indeed nearly to your journey's end. Follow this thoroughfare over yonder hill, and then—"

Me: "Wait. Stop. God, you're making my ears bleed. Look at yourself. I mean, it's the middle of a Wednesday. So it's not like you're dressing up in a vinyl colonial outfit and prancing around out here because you like history and this is just your cute little hobby. This is actually your job. Does it bother you that your wife sleeps with other men solely due to the shame your profession brings her? Why haven't you killed yourself yet?"

Fake Paul Revere: (hangs head) "I'm already dead inside."

That cheered me up, so walked around until I found a hobo digging around inside one of the trashcan maps, and armed with not only a derelict to give me directions but a map on the back of a garbage bin to confirm it, I quickly found my way to the Philadelphia Museum of Art. It was a long walk, but it was worth it. Directly outside of the museum is a huge statue that attempts to collectively display all of the excitement and wonder that took place during the founding of America.

Chick with sword


Here's a woman crouched over the body of what is presumably her husband, ready to take up his weapon to defend their freedom against the British tyranny.

I'm a shitty photographer


Next, we have a mounted colonial, possibly "Barry", bravely gesturing with his sword point towards the bright and democratic future his beloved country would soon enjoy.

Indian tits



Here we have a picture of some Indian tits, because I, like my forefathers before me, think tits are cool.

Mooseknuckle



This is a mooseknuckle.

And what lay just beyond this massive commemoration to our great nation's history? What else could possibly be included near so noble a monument to the majesty of America?

Adrianne! Yo! And stuff!



It's Rocky! Yay!
I know that the movie was shot here, and it's a great, classic movie and all, but come on. Do you really need to erect a statue of a retarded boxer outside of one of the most historic places in America? Why not just put up a huge sculpture of Will Smith and Bill Pullman in the front lawn of the White House so that we would always remember Independence Day? I tried to run up the steps, hoping that recreating the famous scene would lessen my scorn, but I passed out about halfway up. After regaining consciousness and smoking a cigarette, I slowly made my way to the top. They were doing a whole bunch of construction, so it was kind of hard to recreate the exact scene, but I swear to God there were still about eight idiot people smiling and dancing around with their fists raised while their embarrassed companions quickly took pictures of them. After laughing at a huge overweight woman pretending to be Rocky and almost falling over and breaking her ankle, I trudged back down the steps and began looking for a bum so I could ask directions back to my hotel.

Thus ended my adventures in the magical city of Philadelphia. It had been fun; I'd learned about my nation and now, whenever anybody stopped me on the street to ask me who founded the U.S. Navy, I could look them in the eyes and respond with confidence, "Barry did." So thank you, Philly. You're delicious greasy sandwiches and statues dedicated to both obscure historical figures and movie icons have touched me in a way that I'm sure I'll never feel again, at least until I go to a city that's slightly cleaner.