I'm okay on my own, but I've been so long alone

I just have returned from another trip to the East Coast. This is where, from what I understand, a lot of Dana's regular readers live, and honestly, I have to ask, What is it with you people? It's like someone cut the bottom out of Pink Flamingos and shook it out onto the streets. Everyone you see is a honking, screaming hunchback in an Iverson jersey or is entirely made up of 90 degree angles and unnatural colors.

Granted, me saying that Philadelphia = The Entire Eastern Seaboard is tantamount to one of you visiting Milwaukee and assuming that my Chicago is nothing but an undead smelting plant as well. Sill, no one ever went broke over-generalizing and preaching prejudice and division, so I'm going to continue to ride this train of thought anyway.

I've touched on this subject before elsewhere, and I swear to you I'm not trying to revive some kind of Billy Crystal circa '83 "Wow, the Midwest sure is different" bit, nor am I an innocent naïf who's wandering into town for the first time with a head full of big city spook stories and diagram showing which one is the salad fork pinned to the inside of his coat. I know stuff, I've been places, I've done things...but really, it's like a different planet there. A planet made up entirely of shellac and press-on nails.

There was a moment that perfectly crystallizes my entire weekend, as well as my feelings about that geographical area. My girlfriend and I had spent several hours helping our mutual friend set up and host his MFA show and we were exhausted and going back to our hotel with his wife for a quiet drink before turning in. Not only could neither of the Philly natives think of anywhere nearby that wasn't "totally gross," but when we finally gave up and walked into the hotel bar, we were greeted with the wails and shrieks of Philadelphia Karaoke (a euphemism dying to be defined). We were able to get a table outside, but we had to literally walk across the "stage" to get there--and I apologize to the guy singing Copacabana, I didn't mean to step on your cord and unplug the microphone, even if it really was best for everyone involved.

Anyway, so we were outside talking and watching the locals slither by when I saw a guy walk in from the lobby, belly up to the bar and begin to play a frantic air-guitar solo to the wretched version of Magic Man that some shrill nail tech was belting out behind him. It was short, but it was intense and it answered that age old question:

"Who plays air guitar to Karoake?"

"Some guy in Philadelphia"

I know you've all probably lived there for so long that you don't even notice this stuff any more, but, seriously, the next time you're out in public, really take a look at your surroundings and remember it doesn't happen everywhere else.

(and I say that knowing full well that I live in the city that brought you Richard Speck, John Wayne Gacy and, for a time, even Jeffrey Dahmer)