Verging on Pertinence

""When things are good people seem to want to give you flowers. When things go bad - heads up! The vase is coming at you."-Martin Biron, Phlyers netminder and florist

Philly up 3-1 over the Habs of Montreal. Unbelievable. Each game basically the same. Phlyers go up 1-0. Then 2-0. Then Montreal ties it up. Two goals between a sip and a subsequent swallow of beer.

Uh-Oh. This is the game that they fold. Well, it was a good run. Next year, with this year's experience, they'll do much better. And Kovalev; this period he'll stop dancing with the puck and start making a serious commitment with the Phylers' net.

But,
it doesn't happen. The Phlyers take a moment or two to mull over things and they close the deal. 4-2, last night and another demoralizing loss for Montreal, despite the best efforts of the NHL referees in the first period to assist their scoring efforts. The Phlyers have come to terms with the fact that they will be penalized needlessly and seem to have planned for playing a man short as part of their game plan.
You've got to empathize with the Habs. They play a beautiful game and yet...they're one game from elimination. The Clydesdales are galloomping past the Thoroughbreds.

Labels: Philly

These new-fangled automated parking meters are quite efficient when they are working. In Pittsburgh, I've used these types of meters in various places and was never short-changed or maltreated.

Philly.
Well, same state, different story. Not knowing yet what a pleasurable visit it was to be and having just had some police issues, yours truly was not in the most Christian of moods. Little did I know that I had to deal with the cold unforgiving nature of machinery before a night of music could begin.

Driving around the South Street area is always an opportunity for agita, of the parking variety. Well, non-parking variety, really. Special parking sticker area, limited meter area, 2 HR max area, "don't you even think about moving my garbage can reserving a street spot" area.
All of these limited areas and a very limited time to find availability forced me to drive in reverse into a questionably maintained parking lot. Luckily, I spied 3 cars in the lot of a very recent vintage, so leaving my unwashed and dinged 1999 Camry with 200k miles (a Philly visit vehicle) seemed a safe bet. The lot had no attendant but it had one of those central metering schemes which involved your punching in some info, the meter calculating your fee, your feeding in legal US Currency, and, to complete this faceless financial interaction, the meter returning the difference between the fee and your fed-in bills.
Easy enough it seemed.
$15 was calculated if you wanted to leave the car overnight.
$10, if you left by midnight.
Push the $10 choice.
Feed in a twenty.
Wait for the change to drop.
This dropped.
Then this.
Oh, then one more.
Wait. Hum. Bang.
Then, with a slight thump, a ticket to place inside my car's windshield.

So, in Philly Parking Math, $20 minus $10 equals $3, plus a very expensive blend of paper.

Needless banging of meter and muttering in choice Croatian curse words resulted in no addition to the money in hand. Looking carefully at the coins in my hand, I even doubted whether the excruciatingly shiny coinage spat out by this meter bandit was legitimate legal tender. I bit one coin and winced.

This evening was taking on the expensive tinge of those Mastercard commercials. Fun to see, lack of fun experiencing them.

Labels: Effluvia, Philly, Pittsburgh

On a recent foray into Philly with my daughter, I unfortunately drove into a situation involving two seperate expenditures of cash and depletion of my goodwill toward men.

Expenditure and Goodwill Erosion #1
In search of scant parking spaces around the TLA, I was approaching an intersecting street crossing South Street, the main drag of the “Alt/Cool” section of the City of Bro-Love. The light was turning quickly from yellow with tinges of a red dawn already shining my way. On the corner were four of Philly’s finest in riding shorts, strapped pistols, and straddling pitch-black mountain bikes. On my car’s backside was a cellphone in hand motor-mouthing, SUV-driving, not-paying attention driver.
What to do?
A) Slam on the brakes to obey the signal and prevent the occifers from writing me up for running a red light, while almost guaranteeing a solid hit to my Camry by the aforementioned $&^*^*# driver?
B) Continue on through the now turning red light, but at a reduced rate of speed while looking up South Street to ensure I’d get through without being broadsided?
C) Press the ejection seat buttons and propel my daughter and myself through the sunroff my car doesn’t have?
D) Veer off to the left and plow into innocent pedestrians?

Surmising the consequences of safety and eventual financial layout, I opted for choice B.

It wasn’t but a matter of a minute or so when I glanced in my side mirror and saw three dark bicycles struggling and bouncing up the street in my general direction (Note: Philly’s streets are well-known for their debilitating potholes). One rider passed me and pulled over the car in front of me (who had driven through a completely yellow light…poor sucker.). Another shallow-breathing guy rapped on my window and asked for the usuals. As I was digging through the glove compartment for my insurance card and registration, I heard him yell to the cop who’d stopped the cart in front of me (with a touch too much of glee, I’d say), “Hey, this is a first. Two cars, one light. You bet your ass, we’re going to ticket both of them.”

His delight was a balloon I couldn’t and wouldn’t be able to deflate or prick. So, to the cost of the concert tix, processing fees, indulgement fee, sight fee, I’ll just add on the cost of a traffic ticket. I’ll discuss my parking woes on this fine night in another post.

Well, at least I won't have to fret about auto body repair bills or having to file a claim for damage to my car as I wasn't rear-ended. More importantly, my daughter and I were able to walk away form the ticket sans a scratch. I mentioned this little bit to the officer as he handed me his excrutiatingly penned script, to which he opined, “Guess I saved you a bundle, bub.”

Bub, indeed.

A bub and his money were soon parted.

Labels: Domestic Burdens, Philly, Trips

Yes, this marks my seemingly monthly post. Wish I could promise more at this time, dear patient readers. Suffice it to say that parenthood has its rewards and its Black Dog days.
So, scuttling along sideways from the Black like your average Blue, let me pontificate about a fine concert at Philly's Fillmore at the Theatre of Living Arts (How i hate that name!!! Just TLA, please!!!).

A triple bill.
First act was a local band, Elk.
Followed by Portugal. The Man (Always love a band that practices careful punctuation).
Then, headliners Minus the Bear.

I'll leave off giving band histories as the links provide quite a bit of such information, if you so desire.

Elk kicked off the concert with a 4 (5?) song set of their own compositions. Jared Obstfeld, Guitar/vocals, had a fine voice, though the sound mix negated any clarity to the lyrics. Mr.TJ Smith seemed to be working intently and intensely on the (his) left of the stage, on guitar. Unfortunately, the sound mix (again) knocked his solos completely out. He was hoping for an 11 on his amp; it sounded more like a two. I will vouch that he was strumming furiously. The band played with a visual energy not reciprocated with their emanating sound. A bummer for all concerned. Noticed some band parental units, with video cameras, snaking through the standing crowd trying to catch the best angles. Hope these guys appreciate their 'rents' support!

Amid lighting on the darker end of the spectrum and wispy smoke blowing along the stage, Portugal. The Man commenced with their presentation around 8:40 pm. This 3-piece band, fronted five that night. No intros were made, so the names of the keyboard and spec-'fect guy cannot be provided. Why these guys like to go the Three-Name-Route (shaded of John Wesly Harding) is not for me to get into, 'cept to comment that the Three-Name-Route suggests a stuck-up attitude that the band does not display. Zachery Scott Carothers, the bass-player, is a total nut on stage. He plays the bass as if in a set-long struggle with an anaconda. The un-mentioned keyboard player has his own movement challenges that, when coupled with the dance stylings of Mr. Carothers, made this audience member wince with empathetic embarrassment while also admiring their guileless charm tromping in mis-step on the TLA stage. Mr. John Baldwin Gourley, the lead guitarist and vocalist of this energetic bunch, cradles his guitar high and tight to his left armpit and emits tight squeals and synthesized yelps throughout the performance. The guy's an ace; it would have been great to hear some longer, more developed solos from him. His talent is undeniable. The group's set list, forgive my addled brain, was 5 songs as well, with each song tailing into and out of longer improvisations. Some of the improvs tended to the "Let's play this jag 'til it dies" style which was a shame as Mr. Gourley certainly has the licks to elucidate rather than repitate (yeah, yeah, "repitate" doesn't exist, but it reads better with "elucidate"). The sound mix was much better than Act #1 proving the point that it wasn't the sound system, it was the sound guy who was asleep or not there for Elk's part of the show.

Finally, at 9:50 (show "started" at 8:00), Minus the Bear took command. The place was packed at this point; turns out the show was sold out. The audience's enthusiasm and energy were at a fever pitch which was surprising as the TLA had ripped out the theatre's seating eons ago and the fans had been standing on the forward-tilting wooden floor since well before 8:00. The calf muscles and shins were screaming for a chair. To get it out of the way, the sound mix was clear, strong and consistent admirably reflecting each band member's contribution to each song.
What first interested me about the band was the distinctive taste and force of the drummer on the albums, Planet of Ice and Menos el Oso (which is Spanish for "Minus the Bear"). Mr. Erin Tate, the live version, did not disappoint. Tight, busy, and exercising quick short strokes, he, along with lead guitarist Dave Knudson, had the energy levels on high right from the start. Starting with several selections from their latest release, Planet of Ice, the band had the audience singing along all the way through selections from Menos el Oso. For those purists and CD-aholics (I raise my hand unashamedly), it was amazing to hear their renditions follow their recorded songs so closely. There were enough side trips by the band through some of the songs to prove they weren't a great studio band simply doing reps. The explorations tended to be short and quick, keeping the integrity of their songs, which tend to be in 3:30 to 4:40 range, in place. A fabulous performance. I encourage you all to give them a look on their current tour.


A tip of the wig to Mr. Whisky Prajer, who first clued me in on these guys. Thanks again, WP!

Here's a YouTube of their Pachuca Sunrise, from Menos el Oso.

Labels: Philly, Reviews

Per this article, it seems some sandwich, prepared in the Port Richmond section of town may have been responsible for averting a major vehicular disaster.


Who says Philly sandwiches are heart and life threatening?

The article mentions sausage sandwiches were digested from some restaurant in Port Richmond. Never realized that chomping on sausage was as effective as munching on carrots for improving one's eyesight. But, sausage seemed to do the trick for the eagle-eyed engineer who spotted the rather huge crack in a bridge's support column.

I'm willing to bet the sausage sandwich came from the famous Tacconelli's Pizza joint. I'm sure, there'll be a picture of the engineer, sausage hoagie in hand, posted inside the shop very shortly. So, go with the traditional Philly Sausage Hoagie as the Hero/Hoagie of the Day

Labels: Humans, Philly

Just arrived late Sunday night from another great trip to Allegheny County and Pittsburgh. Lots of topics to blog about shortly, another visit to the Warhol Museum, my favorite museum to build up one's bile, the First Bhangra in the Burgh, the Duquesne Incline, and some great little eateries.

But for tonight, some sad news for most Philly sports fans.
The Igglez are going down tonight in a big way. 21-7 at halftime? QB McNabb playing like a rookie? Terrell Owens just scoring in the first minutes of the second half on a 45 TD pass to make it 28-7? It will be a long and brutal night....

...and a joyfully miserable mourning tomorrow on Philly sports talk radio. Misery is not woven into a better-fitting garment of malaise than in the city of Brotherly Love.
And that's why I love the Igglez. There is no team in Philly that causes as much heartburn, heartbreak, and (I'm sure but w/o stats on this one) heart attack as the Birds. They are going through the beginning of the worst of times, a temporal period that tends to span decades in the City by the 'Ware.
Philly fans use the baseball, hockey, and basketball seasons to tune up or keep their lungs healthy and capable of expelling choice verbiage at ear-deafening volumes. The ever-loving wife, on a trip North recently, had the good fortune to be sitting across from a dapper ex-Long Islander now living in Philly. A long time and current fan of the other NY baseball team, he shook his head as he explained his view of the Philly fan.
"You know, it's not that the Philly fan wants your team to lose. That would be understandable. What the Philly fan wants you to know is that not only will your team lose but that your team sucks. In fact," he twisted his tie off and continued, "the Philly fan wants to be sure that you know that you, as a human being, also suck."

He looked up at my wife, shaking his head," I've been here (in Philadelphia) for 15 years and I still don't understand the vitriol." (note here: My wife, not an Igglez fan, understood that last word; I won't vouch the same for your avg Igglez fan).

It's now 35-10, the 'Boys. While I too can't stand the Dallas team, this (soon-to-be) embarrassing defeat will mean a lot of crocheting of the misery afghans. If you are one who is interested in public displays of pain for all of the wrong and inane reasons, life is good.

Later, but not too later, da Boys are up 38-10. I would strongly suggest that if you own a Cowboys baseball cap not to wear it tomorrow, unless the check for your life insurance premium has been cashed.

Labels: NaBloPoMo, Philly, The Sporting Thing

This, (from the excellent ink, drawing, and word site of Cubby Blue. Please visit early and often. Very illuminating place to visit and I'm not just referring to his unique illustrations.)

and this bit, from McSweeney's just about synopsizes the season, going forward, for the Eagles.

Not enough mirrors to disguise the confusion, injuries, and consistently poor coaching for this year.
The good news?
The sports radio talk shows have a mastodon of a topic, the Eagle's demise, to chew on for the next 2 months.

Labels: Philly, The Sporting Thing

On Saturday, June 9th, I was fortunate enough to have tickets to see Kruno Spisic and friends performing at Philly’s World Café Live Café, the Upstairs lounge. Housed in the renovated Hajoca Building down the street from the U of Penn campus, this venue has been quite successful, a credit to the folks who set up the club and certainly a well-managed spill-off from the ever-growing kingdom of college-based radio, WXPN.
The Upstairs lounge is a cozy area, with two floor levels filled with tables for couples and groups and a long bar on the right side of the room for individual seating. Acoustics and sound equipment are clear and enjoyable, which is a surprise as the venue has 20-25 foot ceilings; some acoustic engineer knew what he/she was doing. Sight lines are a bit off as the performance stage is minimally elevated. If you’re not sitting at a table within 25 feet of the stage, prepare yourself for a long night of cocking your head from side to side and a lot of leaning forward and back. If this gets tiring, as it did, one can always get lost in the pools of love emanating from your companion’s eyes and simply let your ears stay engaged to the music while your eyes are only on her/him. Good for bonus points of the romantic variety, don't you know.

And what music to engage oneself in... All acoustic instruments; the deep resonant sounds of aged wood and taut steel strings. Two rhythm guitarists furiously keeping up with Mr. Spisic as he picked and bent notes with a most rapid of motion. There was a double bass player, laying down solid lines behind the ever-advancing army of plucked guitar sounds. Since the bass player was standing, he was consistently the only person we saw during the 2 hour performance.
Mr. Spisic cuts quite a figure. Like most men of Croatian origin (most, not all, so I’m not including myself here), he is of the tall, dark, & handsome variety, which made it easier on the women who were dragged to this show by their music-seeking men. I can’t say enough about his guitar-playing. He’s not a showy performer at all, reveling in the performance of the group. He has a deep, dark singing voice which he used only on a few occasions to sing Balkan songs, "Svaku Zenu, Volim Ja" (I Love All Women) and "Delem Delem" (I Walk I Walk) among others. I eagerly translated the songs for my family but, as my daughter pointed out, I could have been telling them anything about the songs and they’d assume my translation was true. Mr. Spisic would have helped the cause by noting some of the key lines of the songs for his listeners, although most folks seemed more than happy to remain in the dark since his voice was so enjoyable to listen to. Perhaps it was our seating or my poor hearing that negated my comprehension of most of the patter he had in between songs. At the end of the performance, I also missed hearing the names of his fellow musicians, all of whom were excellent and obviously in the same state of mind and performance as Mr. Spisic.

The repertoire was mainly Django Reinhardt’s catalogue; songs Mr. Reinhardt had actually composed or songs that he loved playing. Mr. Reinhardt’s most popular song, Minor Swing (remember the underlying music of Chocalat, was faithfully and energetically performed by Mr. Spisic. The general format of the songs were your typical jazz renderings. Theme, solo, theme, solo, and close out with a pithy version of the theme again. Where Reinhardt’s renditions tended to be in the 3 minute area, occasionally straying into the 4 minute area, most of Mr. Spisic’s versions were in the 4:30 to 6 minute time frame. The runs were breathtaking, the slower pieces were clever combinations of various songs, the overall affect was listening to a craftsman thoroughly enjoying his craft. The audience’s response reflected this. There was enthusiasm and a lot of neck-craning as the evening wore on. When the last song was finished Mr. Spisic and his cohorts cahooted off stage and into the darkness, a djingling Djangology of notes still hanging in the air.

I'll be checking his site for future concert dates. He's not worth seeing only once! He also has a MySpace site available with some videos. His next performance will up at the Django In June festival on June 16th at the Helen Hills Chapel in Northhampton, MA

He played most, if not all, of the songs on his only CD. I’m waiting to see how well he was recorded; if the CD’s anything close to his live performance, it will an album well worth listening to.

Just a short biography with sites to visit linked within.Krunoslav Spisic (Lead guitar in the band Crossing Paths) was born in Ontario, Canada. From what I can best gather, it was somewhere between Kitchner and Mississauga, about a 50-60 mile spread. He began his musical training at the early age of 8 (or 10, depending on where Google lands you). He found himself playing rock and blues throughout his teenage years, honing his technical prowess and improvisational abilities. While studying at Duquesne University, Krunoslav was introduced to Django-style guitar by Richard Balazs, and began a passionate study of the Gypsy Jazz genre. Upon returning home to Canada, he was fortunate to study with and perform under the tutelage of Arsen Torlakovic, a world-class gypsy jazz musician. Torlakovic played with legends such as Birelli Lagrene and Robin Nolan. After playing the Toronto jazz circuit, Kruno gained an extensive repertoire and a more mature understanding of the gypsy jazz idiom. In January of 2002, Kruno reunited with his friends Richárd Balázs and Brock Belich to re-introduce and popularize the sounds of Django and Gypsy Music.


Andrew Lawrence, Event Organizer at Django In June, mentioned on his site that, "(he) had a chance to hear Krunoslav "Kruno" Spisic play in New York City a couple of years ago and promised myself that I would find a way to include him in Django in June as soon as possible. Kruno is now based in Philadelphia, PA, but to hear him sing and play you'd think he'd just gotten off the boat from the Old Country. Having grown up in a Croatian household and cut his instrumental teeth on an Eastern European variety of mandolin called the Tambura, Kruno makes distinctive and beautiful music by fusing Eastern European folk traditions with Django swing." From Django in June

From a Croatian site, Volavje, some familial information was provided along with pictures. Kruno’s older brother, Mark Špišić, concocted the Tambura Orkestar. He graduated from Duquesne, an educational path that Kruno followed. Mark Špišić is currently(???) the musical director of a folklore group, Kraljice Jelene, in Kitchner, Ontario.

Kruno and his older brother, Mark at a concert party in Mississaugua, Ontario.

Kruno and a cast of ladies

Here's an interview from Philly’s City Paper back in 2005.

Labels: Philly, Reviews