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  1. Futurality (Excerpt)

    June 18, 2010

    If you like this excerpt, you can download the PDF in the “Novels” section of this site.

    Chapter One

    The cool night air streamed over my cheeks. It would have felt good if I could forget that I was falling to my death. There was a Blu-Ray disc in my left hand – its luminescent sheen reflected the lights of skyscrapers as I plummeted. I could hear police sirens over the air thundering past my ears. Hovering neon billboards blurred – I picked up quick snatches of the advertisements. One said, SkyAngel Jetpacks FOR SALE!
    If I only had one of those right now…
    I glanced up and saw police hovercars. They didn’t see me yet, but it didn’t matter. They wouldn’t need to arrest me when I became a street pancake. Headlights washed over me – a hovercar swerved to avoid me, nearly flying into the side of an office building. The cops saw me. Their headlights glared at me as they dove. They wanted the disc, but they wouldn’t die for it, so they pulled up and let me fall.
    I felt the cold plastic of the disc in my hand, and I glanced at it. I wish it was a week ago and I could tell myself not to steal the damn thing. I closed my eyes. It had been my eighteenth birthday a week ago…
    ***
    I was sitting on the roof of my apartment building in a fold up chair, looking out at the Philadelphia Underground District – we call it PUD for short. The lights of the city twinkled thirty stories below me. Hovercars wound around buildings in spirals – their red taillights looked like insidious eyes. Far away a glowing billboard marqueed the time and date, as well as the name of new movies that were playing.
    They built PUD for people that can’t afford air purifiers. The air topside is so polluted that you need a gas mask to walk around. But if you put a purifier in your home, or on your balcony or whatever, it can keep the air clean for you to breathe. Some of the rich neighborhoods, like Society Hill, have machines that can purify miles of air. But that costs a lot of money, and the housing prices rise accordingly. That’s why poor people end up in PUD, where the pollution is naturally a little thinner. Plus, down here we’re only allowed to use fuel-efficient hovercars, fire-resistant buildings, and low energy quotas. And you better believe it’s enforced – not by just the cops either. If you drive some gas-spewing SUV around town, you’ll probably get pulled out at a stop light and catch an ass beating. There are kids around here, and giving them lung cancer because you wanted extra legroom and a badass thruster set just doesn’t fly.
    The ceiling of PUD was carved out of the bedrock Philly was built on. They have a fake sky displayed on it, which changes from day to night. The only problem is that if you look closely, you can tell it’s not real.
    That almost real night sky is what I was looking at as I drifted off to sleep.
    I fell off my apartment building in the dream. Instead of landing on the street, I ended up falling through trees – I was in a rainforest. I ripped through the trees and landed on the soggy ground with a thump. I got to my feet – I was draped in mud. Rain and starlight wended their way through the jungle canopy. The chittering of insects, the screech of birds, the howl of an ape, and the thrum of dense life – all of these washed over me.
    I walked through the trees, pushing aside wet, leafy branches. I shivered. My skin was buzzing with adrenaline. There was a glow about ten feet ahead of me. Twin blue circles. Eyes?
    I froze.
    The eyes blinked.
    I wanted to turn and run, but I couldn’t tear myself away from them. I was paralyzed.
    The eyes approached me, and the silouhette of an enormous creature – at least seven feet tall – materialized. It looked like some kind of cross between a praying mantis and a man. I couldn’t make out its face, but I could see that its skin was a glossy black.
    I woke up with a start. I was back on the roof of my apartment building – cold sweat soaked into my shirt.
    That was a weirdass dream, I thought, rubbing my eyes. I stood up and folded my chair. When I got on the elevator, I punched fifteen.
    I stepped out of the elevator and walked down the hallway to my door. I leaned forward, and looked into a retinal scanner. I pressed my finger against the doorknob, and waited while it checked my fingerprints. I typed my six-digit passcode into the keyboard next to the door. Sometimes I get annoyed at all the steps I have to take to open my door – then I remind myself that everyone in my neighborhood has these security measures. It’s a helluva lot better than someone breaking in. I reached for the doorknob but stopped. Something wasn’t right. I looked back and forth anxiously. Living in the roughest part of Philly teaches you something: trust your instincts.
    I punched a button on the side of my wristcomputer, which looked like your standard digital watch. I held out my arm and my wristcomputer projected a screen in front of me; it shivered in the air as my arm trembled slightly. I double tapped the screen a few times to start a program, then waved my hand over it and turned off the monitor. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a pair of wireless earbud headphones, putting them into my ears. I dropped silently to the floor, and carefully took off my writscomputer and slipped it under the crack of the door. I reached into my jacket and put on a pair of sunglasses. The sunglasses were linked to a small camera in my wristcomputer.
    My heart fluttered. I heard breathing inside the apartment, and the enhanced nightvision image in my sunglasses showed a few pairs of shoes pointed at the door. They were waiting for me.
    Who were they and what did they want? I stood up and reached into my jacket with both hands, pulling out two chromed pistols. Maybe I should run. I shook my head. If they managed to beat my security they would just chase me down eventually, they somehow had all my information. I would have to kill them, maybe leave one alive so that I could at least figure out who was after me. I looked down the hallway and considered running again. Instead I clicked the safeties off.
    I took a few steps and waistbanded one of my guns. I walked to my neighbor’s door. I knocked and waited – he wasn’t home. I pulled up the data screen on my wristcomputer and started a new program – I reached out and tapped at its floating monitor.
    “Initiate override sequence,” I said.
    A few seconds later my nieghbor’s lock clicked open. I swung his door open and walked quietly into my neighbor’s house. There was no way I was going to use the front door of my own place when there were people waiting for me. Better to give them a surprise.
    I walked out onto my neighbor’s balcony – fake starlight greeted me. I used my wristcomputer to access my home network – think of it as a universal remote that controls air conditioning, security settings, alarms, windows, and so on.
    “Open my front door in ten seconds,” I told my network.
    I ran a few steps and leapt – landing hard on the railing of my own balcony. I pulled myself up and stifled a groan. I stood and put my hand on the sliding glass door to my apartment. I gripped it tightly as I waited. I squinted through the glass door – I could see shadowy silhouettes in the darkness. My front door opened and light from the hallway poured in – it was a perfect decoy, and the three intruders had their full attention on it.
    I pulled sliding glass door of my balcony open and exploded through it, guns ready. I aimed and my fingers brushed against the triggers.
    “Surprise!” they yelled. “Happy Birthday!”
    What? I thought. My hands relaxed.
    “Where the hell is he?” my friend Tyron said.
    “What’s going on?” I said.
    They all turned around.
    “What, did you think we were robbing you or something?” Elise asked me.
    “I don’t know…I looked under the door and saw you. Thought you were…I don’t know, feds or something.”
    I put away my guns and turned, shutting my balcony door. My pulse was slowing back to normal.
    “Wow, man. I think you’re a little too high strung. I think you need to get laid, you jumpy mofo,” Daz said.
    “Your Mom doesn’t think so.”
    “You two pussies can have a catfight later – we’ve got a bus to catch in ten,” Tyron said.
    I cocked an eyebrow. “A bus?”
    “Yeah. We’re going aboveground tonight. And you’ve got a free ticket to Dave’s.”
    I raised my eyebrows and smiled.
    “We knew that you got off of work around now so we wanted to surprise you. We got transportation, food, the whole deal,” Daz said.
    “You guys…thanks. This is going to be awesome,” I said.
    A few moments later we were outside my apartment building, walking under the endless spirals of hovercar traffic that lit the sky like some frenetic tableau of shooting stars. We waited at the corner until a hoverbus picked us up.
    Once we got on the bus, I couldn’t help but look for an easy mark. The bus was a great place to get some easy IP; all you need is to find an old person with weak security. I noticed one forty-something man with and ancient wristcomputer. He was typing with a pair of Vboard gloves on, tapping away at the open tray table in front of him. I couldn’t see the keyboard – only he could with his glasses – but I could imagine where the keys were as I watched his fingers moving. I waited until he typed in a security code. I smiled slightly and nudged Tyron.
    “I got his code,” I whispered.
    “How?”
    “He was typing, and I watched carefully. Want to mess with him?”
    Tyron shrugged. “Why not. You got anything in mind?”
    I nodded and turned on my wristcomputer. In less than a minute I had hacked the man’s computer. I brought up the man’s desktop and watched for a few moments as his cursor moved. Then I took over. I turned up the volume on his external speakers. They weren’t very loud but they would work for my purposes.
    A moment later a mechanical voice from his wristcomputer spoke.
    “Would you like to purchase another six bottles of Viagra? Your auto-order payment has run out.”
    The man turned bright red and frantically tried to mute his computer. A few of the people on the bus glanced over.
    “Purchase accepted. You will be getting a bottle tomorrow. Would you like to buy penile enlargement medication? If the answer is yes, input how many…thank-you for the purchase of four bottles of Xaltex, the ultimate in male enhancement medication. Would you like to look at any related products?”
    The man tore off his sunglasses and looked around the bus at the amused glances of the other riders.
    “I swear I didn’t just buy any of that, my computer is malfunctioning. Really,” he stammered.
    I buried my face in my hands to smother my laughter, and peeked over at Tyron. He was nearly crying.
    “Automatic reminder,” the man’s computer said. “Your subscription to Playgirl Magazine has expired. Would you like to repurchase?”
    The hoverbus came to a stop and a metallic voice said, “Sub-Broad and Sub-Locust Streets.”
    The man stood up and strode quickly to the door. He took off his wristcomputer, burying it in his pocket as he walked. Once he was outside the four of us couldn’t hold it in any long; we burst out laughing.
    Tyron said, “Did you see his face?”
    “Hell yeah – that probably wasn’t even his stop. Betcha he bailed early.”
    “How did you do that, Z?” Daz asked.
    “I saw him type in the code, that’s all.”
    “And you could follow that? Your eyesight is insane, bro.”
    I shrugged.
    “We’re going above,” Elise said.
    The hoverbus had just reached the exit to PUD, and we could see up into the cool night air. Philadelphia. The buildings loomed around us as the airbus flew toward their glowing spires. The city was beautiful here, but also oppressive. There were so many people walking along the glowing, suspended walkways, so many hovercars whizzing around, their headlights cutting through the smoggy darkness. The airways were clogged tonight, and our bus was one in a long line. There were similar lines above, below, and to the side of us, and the route to the waterfront took a winding path through the buildings of Center City. I didn’t care though; a trip to Dave and Buster’s is well worth waiting in traffic.


  2. Hoverball Excerpt

    January 31, 2010

    I just added a new short story! An excerpt is below (if you want to read the rest, go to My Work, click on Short Stories, and find the Read Hoverball link to download the PDF).

    What? You’ve never heard of hoverball? Where the hell are you from? Nevermind. Think of basketball, except you have a jetpack, and when you have the ball you can be tackled, dived into, punched, kicked – anything the enemy can think of short of using weapons. It’s like snorting crack on a roller coaster: it’s dangerous, adrenaline inducing, and the air rushing past your sweat-covered skin feels like someone is drenching you with a fire hose of ice water.

    Also, you know how real basketball is played on hardwood floors, with two stationary baskets? Hoverball has a hardwood court far below (it’s about the size of four basketball courts), but it’s really just a figurehead. We don’t touch the court that often. The stadium is open air, and we can fly up three-quarters of a mile – anything past that and we get penalized. The baskets are about three feet in diameter – and they move. They fly back and forth horizontally, and their rims glow a vivid electric blue.

    Besides flying around at high speeds through the open air of a stadium, dodging punches and tackles, and trying to get the ball into a moving basket, we also have to contend with the stadium lights. The stadium is dim – almost pitch black. Neon lights float around the court. You can guess how unreliable the lighting is – believe me, it can be a real pain in the ass when you’re flying – but hey, who cares about us, it’s all about how cool the game looks. The fans love it. We can usually find teammates with the glowing uniforms, and the bright thrusters flares. To top all that ludicrous danger (I admit I’m addicted to it, but I still don’t endorse it) the shiesty owners of the IHL (International Hoverball League) have thrown other visual obstacles into the mix, which inhabit the stadium during Hoverball games: flashing banners, ads, logos, sexy models sporting the latest Victoria Secret shit – I’ve seen it all. This is done for the spectacle of it, and to see how we react, but mainly for the money. Hoverball is all about money, which is why I’m such a superstar – I’m known for my ability to dish out punishment, something that bothers me but still makes me kind of proud.

    That’s probably why my nickname is Slash. Some announcer called me that after I knocked someone out with a left hook; I was cutting to the right, between coverage, and I had the ball under my right arm – the announcer said, “He’s slashing right, and – wow, he just knocked out the last defender, that’s a…score! I’ve never seen anything like it.” Ever since then that’s been my name; it’s even on my jersey.

    That’s how I got my name, but what really made it famous is my kill count. When you get up enough speed with your jetpack, and you throw a perfect punch, and they don’t see it coming – well, sometimes their visor gets broken, and sometimes their nose drives up into their brain. I killed four in college, and four in pro hoverball – and I’ve only been a pro for three years.

    Anyway, today’s the big day – January 15th. Since you don’t follow Hoverball, that date doesn’t mean much to you. To me and my teammates (and everyone else in the league) today is the most important day of the year. The Platinum Round of the Champions Tournament. Hoverball has a four-month season, and it ends today. Anyway, I gotta hit up the locker room and suited up. Hope you like the game.

    ***

    The announcer’s voice reaches Slash, who is standing in a dark locker room, eyes closed. Cooled sweat clings to his face. Slash takes a deep breath as he hears the announcer’s voice call his name, the syllables drawn out, the deep intonations of the showmen, playing with the syllables to rile the crowd.

    “And finally, Captain of the Philadelphia’s Elite, the most brutal, fearsome, unstoppable tackler and brawler in the league, SLAAAASH!” the guy says. It kind of pisses Slash off how he says it. In basketball they don’t get all fancy, they just announce the damn names and the players come up. But not in Hoverball. In Hoverball everything is a goddamn circus.

    Slash walks into a tunnel that leads out of the locker room.

    He can see nothing in the pitch blackness.

    He has a small earbud in his left ear, and from it the voice of his coach says, “Are you ready to take it to em, Slash? Ready to hurt these guys?”

    Slash nods, forgetting that his coach can’t see him.

    “Yes sir,” Slash says.

    “Just stick with the game plan and we’re coming home with the championship. I know you can do it.”

    The transmission goes silent. He’s alone in the darkness now.

    The tunnel is like the maw of some enormous beast. He stares out the beast’s jaws. Far down away he can see the flicker of the neon-lit strobing stadium.

    “Activate,” he says.

    His hoverpack fires up. The number 11 glows on his chest and back in foot tall numerals. His fists, helmet, feet and feet glowed solid green, and thin pinstripes of green lit in lines up and down his uniform, so he looked like some kind of faceless robot.

    The flare from the thrusters is green – a gimmick added to match his team uniform. In the darkness, this green flare of the thrusters looks surreal, because the tunnel flickers with it, and the walls are white – they seem to crackle with green as Slash stares at them.

    Heat wafts up from behind him, and waves of it shimmer ahead of him.

    He wiggles his index finger (besides his voice commands, intricate finger movements are how he controls acceleration) and flames explode from him – he rockets forward. The jaws become a gun barrel – he is fired out of it.


  3. Muhammad Ali on Religion

    Watch this video, I thought it was awesome.

    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=riJrkiF6czA


  4. A Chance Meeting

    October 31, 2009

    After the Phillies beat the Yankees the other day, my girlfriend and I went for a bike ride. We didn’t know where we were going - we just cruised around looking at the happy fans walking along the streets. We ended up going to the Art Museum. Looking out at Philly’s skyline from the top of the Art Museum’s steps is truly one of the best views you can see.

    But to get up there requires a steep climb up a winding hill that leads to a parking lot behind the Art Museum. We labored up that hill, grinding our pedals down, standing up from the seat, and after we pulled our way to the top, we glided through the parking lot and circled around the museum.

    Getting to the front of the museum is worth every bit of the climb. At the top of the steps, the parkway stretches straight away, and becomes a gold chain of streetlamps enveloping the streaming red taillights and white headlights flowing within it. At the end of the parkway, city hall, with it’s white stone and steel, and it’s stretched, thin-oval dome, its intricate archwork - stare back. But it seems small as it stands between the skyscrapers that reach up into the night sky like glowing spires.

    I put my arm around my girlfriend and we sat on the steps, bikes parked behind us. We looked out at the city. To our right, steam leapt up and shrouded the blue lights of the Cira Center. Ahead, the Comcast building, with its futuristic white glowing face, towered over everything. Around it was the spire of liberty (which was glowing white and red for the Phillies), and that seemed to a rip into the sky and be wedged between the torn air particles. The cars moved slow and smooth like glowing, blurring christmas light floating down a river.

    A car pulled up behind us. Out from it poured six guys with tan skin and dark hair. Another car pulled up; more guys poured out. About ten in all. From the car played a song called, “Freedom,” by Akon I think. The song was a hip-hop track that sounded more electronic. The track was up beat, smooth, and the beat rippled from the cars speakers, hitting us in heavy waves. The guys chattered in another langauge. They had signs that said, “Phillies.”

    “Think they’re Italian?” my girlfriend whispered.

    “I don’t know. South American probably.”

    They kept chattering in their language, but we could pick out some key words and phrases, like:

    “Phillies!”

    “Yeah Philadelphia!”

    They sang along with the song, chanting, “Freedom,” between their bursts of Phillies chants. They hugged and laughed and danced - a strange shuffle, a clap of the hands. They did this on the flat area atop the flight of steps below us. Behind them the lights of Philadelphia twinkled, kind of like were dancing too.

    “It feels like we’re in another country,” my girlfriend whispered with a smile.

    “Philadelphia!” the guy with the big red Phillies sign said agian as he waved it. “We will beat the Yankees! The Yankees suck!”

    I noticed one guy awkwardly standing at the car, watching them dance.

    “No,” another of them said, pulling his standing friend toward the dance. “New York is our brother. Come on, he should dance too.”

    He’s a Yankees fan, I realized. But the guy smiled and they thrust him into the circle, and he danced with them anyway.

    The song changed to an upbeat, fast-paced Middle Eastern tune. The song was like nothing I’ve ever heard before, but the rhythm of it, and the instrumentation, were simple and catchy, bouncy almost, but at the same time coarse and rough in tone.

    Then one of them turned to me. He was a bit shorter than me, had short black hair, a thin face, and looked to be college student aged. He walked over to where we were leaning on the top steps “Dance with us!”

    My smile widened, and my pulse quickened a bit.

    “What?”

    “Come on, dance with us!”

    “Yeah,” another said, with a thick accent drenching the syllable, making the word come out more like, “Jaaah.”

    I stood up. I grabbed my girlfriend’s hand and pulled her up.

    “Wave your hands and step! Let’s go in a circle.”

    We shuffled in a circle, me clumsily trying to learn this strange two-step shuffle and it not mattering how bad I messed it up, because we were all laughing.

    After we danced, we talked. The guy who invited us over is a college student at St. Joe’s named Ali - he and his friends are Arabic.

    So, I did an Arabic dance atop the Philadelphia Museum of Art, new friends laughing around me, clutching my girlfriend’s hand, which was warm among the cool night air, and listening to the beauty of words drenched in Arabic accents, listening to this music from another world transplanting what I thought I knew about my my own.

    Freedom. We danced with the lights, whirring in circles, the Art Musuem standing atop us, enveloping us, holding back the world - the skyscrapers and shimmering lights would then come into view as we circled, and they must have heard the music, because they flickered from their far away places like they were dancing with us.


  5. Phillies Beat Dodgers

    I was sitting at the bar at a Buca Di Beppo on Locust Street when it happened, and after the last pitch, a bunch of my friends and I jogged over to Broad Street. If you read my earlier post on the fun and mayhem that happened last year when the Phillies won it all, then you know the reason for what I saw next: cops were spaced out about every five feet for a mile, batons in hand (seriously, they were slapping them against their palms like bad actors in a movie). At one point I saw a peleton of policeman on bikes cruising through the city (about sixty, no lie). The bike cops were wearing yellow reflective jackets, and they swarmed around checking things out - I saw them two or three times. I also heard about a contingent of horse cops up at Chestnut Street.

    All in all though, thanks to the cops, the party was just good fun. Everyone was slapping hands with me and my friends, there was always something to yell or chant about with hundreds of other people, and everyone was in a good mood. A friend of mine got picked up in the air by someone we don’t know, and he carried my friend as he screamed, “Phillies!” My rommate saw a girl and said, “Yeah Phillies!” Instead of chanting it back, she slapped his ass. She was pretty drunk.

    The chanting, and the hundreds of people on Broad Street, clogging the closed roadway, most of them smiling - another good Philly memory.


  6. Emily

    October 19, 2009

    I finished a new short story - check it out! Here’s the first 500 words, if you like the exerpt, you can find the rest in the short story section under My Work. It’s a horror story about a girl named Emily who returns back to her hometown after ten years and comes face to face with something that has haunted her since she left…

    I haven’t been here in ten years. Hell, I haven’t been to this state in ten years. Or this part of the damn country. Call it paranoia. Call it good sense. But now I’m back. Why?
    Well, I guess I just wanted to make sure she was really dead.
    But you just went to the funeral and saw her ashes. So why are you here?
    I stood just inside the front door of the abandoned Victorian three-story that had once been the four oppressive walls enclosing my childhood. My feet had kicked up dust, which was now rising through shafts of sunlight around me. My chest was engulfed in one of these sunbeams, and it was warm. The rest of me was cold. Cold to the core. Cold in that expectant, shivery, tingling way, the kind you get when you’re strapped into a roller coaster. You know, that shiver after the Six Flags guy comes over and – CLANG – the bar closes over your chest and you can’t move.
    Get out of here, get the next plane to Philly, and never step foot near Denver again. Just leave.
    I jumped and shrieked – a cockroach shot across the floor, right at me. He stopped after my scream, his antennae wavering slightly. I realized that I was holding my purse in front of me like a weapon.
    “Sonuvabitch,” I said.
    I lunged forward and crushed the bastard under my heel – my stomach turned as it crunched.
    Leave Emmy. Leave now. There’s nothing here for you but cockroaches, unfurnished rooms, and bad memories.
    But I just stood there, the crushed cockroach under my heel.
    The cracked panes of the kitchen windows seemed out of place. I could remember when they had the wood had been lacquered in stain, and the wood had shone a rich brown against the rising sun. I remember eating breakfast here as that sunshine came in. I remember my Mother sitting across the kitchen table, tea in hand, sipping it as she stare out the window. Nanna would come over, and with a smile, drop me off a plate of toast and eggs. I would eat these and try and think of something to say to my Mother. But I rarely could, because whatever I thought of didn’t sound good enough for her. The whole ladylike thing had always escaped me, even as a girl. Now the ladylike thing was pretty much dead and gone. And gladly. I hate rich, over-proper tea-sippers now. They’re cold and fake.
    I should see about the Harpischord.
    I cringed. It was like my prep-school grammar was coming back. I should see about.
    I stooped and pulled a pen from my suit pocket, then scraped the cockroach off my heel. At first it stuck to the end of the pen - I shook the pen until the cockroach fell away.
    I walked to the next room, an old, spacious den, totally empty except for a large and dusty harpsichord with ivory legs. Five keys were missing from the right side.


  7. Why I Love Walking in the City

    October 18, 2009

    One of the great things about the city is seeing people who are having a good time. It’s one of the things I miss when I go back to my hometown and walk down Main Street, and see absolutely no one walking. The other day I saw something pretty cool. It started with a couple people kissing.

    The two in question were really going at it – so intensely that the guy was pushing against her and they spun around a little – and they slammed into a metal gate that was down over a storefront. Across the street there was a group of black people that noticed, and the girl put her hand to her mouth and said, “Oh shit! Look at th-” and then she fell, tripping from the curb and sprawling into the street. No cars were coming, and so she sat there for a while just laughing. The couple across the street slightly knew what had happened, and were watching the people across the street laughing. The guy was smiling, but the girl was pulling his shirt in annoyance, trying to get him to go on. He lingered for a moment, smiling and shaking his head.

    The group was still laughing as the couple walked away.


  8. random news

    October 12, 2009

    If you want to see something insane, something that shouldn’t be human…but is…then copy and paste the website below into your url bar and observe. You won’t be disappointed.

    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5MeiwLLZjDo

    I found that video using Stumbleupon, which is a pretty sweet site by the way.

    Anyway, I have another update on the Chocolate Chip Charlie.

    I was walking down Walnut Street, and I got down to IHOP and….Chocolate Chip Charlie was rapping.

    copy this link into toolbar if you don’t know who I’m talking about.: http://farm1.static.flickr.com/168/407425813_4548b93815.jpg?v=0)

    He was moving his hands a little too and swaying as he laid down the verses. I swear to you, I’m not lying. If you want more on Chocolate Chip Charlie, go back and see the “Pimp My Mascot” post (or type it into the search bar).

    Also, I saw Chocolate Chip Charlie get hit by a hard gust of wind, and I heard him cursing as he spun off balance. I don’t know why I’m so amused by this mascot, but every day I see him doing something ridiculous on my way to class.

    Anyway, thugalicious mascots aside – I felt extremely Philadelphian today. My roommates and I bought a griddle, we got some beef, onions, American cheese, and Italian rolls – and we made cheese steaks. They were delicious.


  9. Betcha Didn’t Predict That

    I saw storefront of a fortune telling place that opened a couple months ago. When the fortune teller moved in moved in, I was kind of outraged. Philadelphia doesn’t take me as the place ripe for gullible yuppies to part with their money for some commercialized fortune teller to cash in on.

    Nonetheless, this psychic place opened. It had a big hand over a blue crystal ball embossed onto the storefront window (it was approximately at the corner of 13th and Walnut).

    Later I was talking to my doorman and I heard she (the psychic lady) was running a scam as a sidepot for making extra cash. She was telling people that they had a curse on them, and that they needed to come in once a month and she would remove it. For some dinero. It’s this type of bullshit that I can’t believe is happening here. I mean, how could she get away with this in Philly? We don’t believe in anything except God and sports teams.

    Anyway, the other day I saw the psychic place again. A big closed sign hung on the inside of the glass. Inside was an overturned potted plant and a kicked aside chair.

    The best part: written in white painted letters across the glass was, “Betcha didn’t predict that.”


  10. Review of NCIS…

    October 5, 2009

    I saw the first episode of NCIS: Los Angeles (crime show starring LL Cool J, premiered last week) was exactly what I expected.

    CSI.

    Ripoff.

    CSI ripoffs will soon be considered an entire medium of their own I think. I don’t know why the CSI formula is so damn popular in the first place: crime takes place, the heroes use some cool piece of technology to swab a piece of toilet paper the bad guy wiped his ass with, and BAM. Episode ends. CSI Miami is an especially mindless version of this – but it’s in MIAMI! Who cares that the characters suck (the protagonist falls short of badass and lands somewhere around creepy pedophile). Anyway counting the newly minted NCIS: LA, we have the original CSI, CSI Miami, CSI New York, and the original NCIS (damn that’s a lot of letters). I probably missed a few, but God I hope not.

    Anyway, my point in the end is that CSI is a corpse that they refuse to stop beating (and why should they if it makes money?)

    If you want intelligent television, but you don’t want the slow paced literariness of Mad Men, try out Flash Forward. It has a cool premise, it’s a hot new show, and it’s…original – a novel concept these days.