The Barbs, On Two Non-Consecutive Occasions

Despite their seeming similarity, those two strips of from two non-consecutive events. Right along there with liking the way you look is that when you try to push 6 people into a photo booth there's gonna be a whole lot of somebody's head. I guarantee it. One of these came after a day-long birthday party on American street, watermelons and piñatas included. Also a thunderstorm. We showed up at 1:00 AM perfectly drenched to blend in with the the sweat-soaked crowd that was already there trying to finally topple building to the ground. 

A couple weekends later I was wearing a bowtie and we had all been at a wedding. It sounds more out of place than it actually was though; I was wearing shorts and we had ridden our bikes to the reception. And there's nothing The Barbary appreciates more than riding a bicycle to a fancy event. Beth & Rafiq had put on a little summer fête champêtre up at the B2G2, complete with a jumble of wine-inspired glasses.

The original plan of course was to pedicab the bride and groom to the reception down Germantown Ave., with a procession of bike riders following behind. It eventually turned into just Evan, my dad, Larry, and me making the ride. It'll still be hard to beat that time we took a warm summer evening's ride through North Philly in bow ties, seersuckers, and pink jackets though.

Or that time they had self-serve Vernor's and Evan Williams at the reception. The worst part of that sentence is Vernor's, but the best part is self-serve.

Also, the Trudeaus came. Because what kind of party would it be without them?

Old Friends

The List Game strikes again:

The Barbary Coast

Oh, remember photos? And THE BOOTHS? These people finally stealth-visited me. It feels right (sorry Darcy). Because obviously there's a photobooth a couple blocks from me.

Getting Back in the Habit

Spring Break. A once annual celebration. After last year's Spring Break '94, there was at least one other thing to do—Spring Break: Back to Philadelphia. Darcy showed up with her party-culottes on which lead, among other things, to drinking by the train tracks, that picture with Kermit, and a party MVP award. I didn't vote for her, but I've got a good idea about who did. 

Kermit, as usual, was over served.

By the time Katie showed up at beautiful Wayne Junction the lamb had been marinated, the cucumber had been 'tziki-ed, and all the spana was kopacetica. We celebrated Mary's loss of a son, but gaining of a god, with wine, bourbon, and rum from an authentic Englishman. Next time that happens I'm gonna need to get a picture of The Two Evans together.

Why you eyin' my Crapples boxes?

I'll tell you something though. I don't care who died and went to heaven, I'm not gonna not get the gang back together on a day like last Monday. The Philadelphia cast of BikeTUB made a day of it. With Evan, on his cruiser, leading the parade.

Not satisfied by her tour of the basements of historic Northern Liberties, Katie demanded a walking tour of Germantown—birthplace of abolitionism, Bill Cosby, and Monopoly. We sent her out with our leading expert in local history the next day for a tour of the sites literally minutes before the NYTimes guy was there to blow the lid off the whole thing. Continuing in a long Philadelphia tradition though, she and my dad got really close to a lot of colonial buildings but never actually got into to any. Here he is outside of Clivden, cheesin' as always.

Next up on the history list: Gettysburg. Originally scheduled for Wednesday, its postponement to Saturday was voted best decision in '011. In the meantime it was all BALLRs & tilts for us. It's called the highlife, you should try it sometime. But don't actually try tilt. It's terrible.

Livin' It.

A Karmactic Primer

Today I will be writing about my, and those around around me's, relationship with Karma. This isn't that Hindu or Buddist mumbo-jumbo, "let's all reincarnate as a snow leopard" karma; this is Karma with a Kapital K. And this shit will fuck you over for realzies. Accordingly, Karma is my least favorite cosmic force, right behind the Normal Force.

For all its perceived mystery, Karma is pretty simple; just think of it as one big checking account. The more you deposit, the more you've got to spend. Beware though: just like your account with Citi Bank, it does not accrue interest. Similarly, if you write a cheque your Karma can't cash you will be slapped with an outrageous over-draft fee. Something like the cell phone I lost Friday night. Also, sometimes you find out that your Karma has made a series of bad investments in subprime mortgages and as a result your car has been stolen by the City of Milwaukee. Barring these rare occurrences Karma is a game of Even-Steven, just like Jerry Seinfeld's life. Karma IN = Karma OUT. So, the next time a bus driver let's you on even though you don't have the full fare, or you make a new unexpected friend, or you have a really good slice of pizza, or you find that parking spot right where you wanted it to be, or everyone thinks you're the most attractive guy at the party, or you find a blow-up snowman in the spare bedroom, or your plan to hitchhike to Pizza Shuttle works; start doing some good deeds, because your account balance is plummeting. And Karma never stops doing the Bartman.

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