Thursday, October 6, 2016

Pettifoggery on Jeweler's Row

In the battle for Jeweler's Row, the gloves were off between Toll Brothers and the city's Preservation Alliance. Philadelphia has a storied history of shouting matches in and out of the courtroom with a few fistfights between council members taking place within its own chambers. 

The debate over what our city is and should be is deeply rooted going all the way back to the Founding Fathers bickering over the same for our new nation. Our skyline has risen, fashion has gotten a bit more practical, and the streets probably smell a little better. But when it comes to being an opinionated bunch, we're still Philadelphians at our core, apparent when one Toll Brothers' lawyer, Carl Primavera, uttered the words "pettifoggery" and "poppycock."

I honestly wish I had more free time to attend these sorts of meetings because they sound like a hoot. Then again, I enjoy the image in my head, one of a man who sounds like a dish at Olive Garden in Colonial garb, pointing an ivory handled cane at the Preservation Alliance and shouting words that send most reasonable people to Dictionary.com. But perhaps Primavera was making a point by using antiqued words to describe the acts of an antiquated organization. In this instance, the Preservation Alliance's actions were textbook obstructionist nonsense. 

Like every Philadelphian interested in salvaging our city's history, I too would like Jeweler's Row to live on. There's just one problem: Jeweler's Row - despite the t-shirts - isn't historic, at least it wasn't last week.


When Toll Brothers proposed a high-rise at the corner of 7th and Sansom, there was nothing stopping them. While activists managed to appeal the project, in the end the law as it is intended to work, won. Two hearings couldn't prove that these unprotected properties were protected because those charged with protecting our history failed to do so. At this point, no campaigning, signatures, or screaming will retroactively deem these buildings historic. 

It's easy to paint Toll Brothers the cold Scrooge McDuck paving over the city to create some facsimile of what once was there because they're known for naming their McMansion communities for the historic farms that they raze. Whether they've done anything wrong or immoral is irrelevant, they've done nothing unethical or illegal. They're developers, and developers are in the business of making money. Yet somehow, preservationists in one of the nation's most historic cities, can't grasp that. 

To read quotes and comments from the hearings, it's as if the historical community thinks the collective will of every nerd in the tristate area can save every one of our historic landmarks. But that's not how it works. To win your battles you don't just have to know who you're up against, you have to know how they operate and why. Toll Brothers - and every developer - has a clear agenda and business plan. Where are the Alliance's?

If any property should have served as a lesson, it should have been the Boyd Theater. It was a designated landmark, and through a technicality, only the facade was salvaged. Legally, that was a preservation victory because we managed to save what was legally protected. But to those who love history, it was a loss because we lost what was historic about the Boyd, it's auditorium. 

We should have learned our lesson: We can win battles in favor of historic preservation, but we need to make sure all unprotected landmarks are protected, inside and out when necessary. Jeweler's Row is just another unfortunate lesson, and whether it will be heeded remains to be seen. Will we fight to protect what's left of Jeweler's Row? Will we fight for a district? And will preservationists get out in front of other potential losses before this begins to unfold all over again?

With all the energy, resources, and money spent on the corner of 7th and Sansom, is Robinson's Department Store protected? Is Spring Garden's Church of the Assumption still under the wrecking ball? Are there any other 'Jeweler's Rows' out there that might make trendy residences for New Philadelphians? Because I can assure you those buildings and neighborhoods are already on the developers' radars, and firms like Toll Brothers are just waiting for their market research to tell them the time is right. 

Groups like the Preservation Alliance need to be doing their own market research, their own due diligence. If preservationists continue to fight for properties immediately after they've become profitable, at the eleventh hour, preservationists will always be playing defense. And considering how unprofitable preservation is, it will always be an uphill and rarely won fight. 

Sunday, September 25, 2016

#boycottwoodys

On Thursday, PhillyMag.com posted Ernest Owens' justifiably brutal takedown of the Gayborhood's popular Woody's nightclub over an apparent dress code that appears to be targeting men and women of color. It came about when Kenmar Jones was turned away at the door after performing with FringeArts for wearing sweatpants and sneakers. Vaguely worded or un-posted dress codes have been used for decades to target "urban" clientele by prohibiting everything from tracksuits to brand-specific items like Timberland boots, and this is hardly the first time Woody's has come under fire over its admission policies.

Jones' story echoes the tactics that inspired Chic's song, Le Freak which found its origins in a similar incident wherein the disco band was denied entry into Studio 54 despite an invite from Grace Jones. According to guitarist Nile Rogers and bassist Bernard Edwards, Chic promptly returned to their hotel on New Years of 1977 and wrote the song, only with its original lyrics substituting "freak out" with "fuck off." The story has become musical lore and a neat piece of trivia, but it speaks to a darker piece of Americana, one steeped in what's being referred to as covert racism, and Jones' own experience at Woody's is evidence that it is alive and well in Philadelphia.

Covert or overt, racism is racism. But the importance of distinguishing the two is that the former allows the offender to sidestep responsibility by blaming things like dress codes. The black hole of social media in Tweets and comments only enables the offense by further excusing it by crying "who wears sweatpants to a bar?"

Woody's is no exception when it comes to exclusionary and discriminatory entrance or ejection calls. Last year I saw a man booted from the club for being painted silver, on Halloween of all nights. The bouncer said there were concerns of the bar tops being marred in paint, but a few minutes before he was asked to leave he had kissed his girlfriend. It's rather ironic that Woody's, a gay bar that's become synonymous with straight bridal parties and frat house scavenger hunts, would ask a straight couple to leave because of a very brief moment of PDA, but that makes the venue's rules all the more frustrating. It also gives themselves a bit of slack when taking cash from hoards of straight women by allowing them to say, "remember when we threw out that straight guy?"

Nevertheless, there is a very real reason that gay bars typically don't enforce dress codes, and that's because their existence, the need for their existence, is already exclusionary in nature: they aren't for everyone. Gay bars are an alternative entertainment option for a still-marginalized segment of the population, the LGBT community. And to look at a typical Saturday night crowd at Woody's, it's very apparent that its owners, the Weiss brothers, have forgotten that.

Attend Woody's as a gay man and you'll feel a bit like an animal in a zoo. Straight couples point and whisper while gaggles of women, usually white, hunt for their next accessory, a GBFF. These people are not our allies, if they were they'd be marching with us. To them, we're a handbag to tote with them to Green Eggs Cafe the next morning. By Monday and a Facebook friend request we're thrown in the jewelry box next to a dozen earrings they'll never wear again. 



To be fair, these aren't the covert racists enforcing Woody's discriminatory entrance policies, but they are inadvertently responsible for it, and in so covertly racist. To Woody's-the-business, bridal parties and business happy hours are money, money that wouldn't be there if the bar was truly representative of the vastly diverse LGBT community. Black, Hispanic, Asian, trans, butch, femme, fat, thin, muscular, twink, and everything in between, gay bars are important because it happens to literally everyone, and the Orlando Massacre proved that we still need safe spaces, and Woody's has proven time and again that it isn't one of them. 

On one hand, it might be a blessing that Woody's has become the gay bar du jour for straight people who still think going to a gay bar is some kind of urban safari. If it weren't for Woody's, bridal showers might be pushing their way into U-Bar and Tabu. But the mere mentality that gay bars are on the bachelorette to-do-list speaks to the larger point that this demographic is encroaching on and usurping the few places we have to be ourselves. Before same sex marriage was legalized last summer, these events were especially insulting, and since we've had marriage equality adding a gay bar to the bridal crawl has exploded. Why? Because this demographic can't stand it when something isn't about them. 

Beyond the doors of Woody's, this mentality has infected Philadelphia's Gayborhood like a swarm of locusts. Despite countless neighborhood and nightclub venues throughout the city, they've charged into the Gayborhood and rebranded it the callously named Midtown Village. How is that okay? People pitch a fit if you refer to the Italian Market by its historic namesake, the 9th Street Market, and we'd never consider rebranding Chinatown as Market East Village. Yet with dozens of street signs and rainbow crosswalks at 13th and Locust, it's somehow okay for realtors, and even the city, to rename one of the oldest gay enclaves in the country and the first city to utter the word "Gayborhood." 

We should be more pissed off than we are.

That's not okay. I understand Woody's is a business, and they're in the business of making money. I understand that Philadelphia's Gayborhood sits on vast acreage of developable real estate. But straight people have literally every other neighborhood in the city and hundreds of nightlife venues, and members of the LGBT community still come to cities like Philadelphia to seek community and even safety. With LGBT youths, especially of color, making up a huge chunk of the nation's homeless, Woody's catering to a largely white heterosexual community isn't just an annoyance, it's irresponsible to the community they still claim to represent. 

It's time to hammer the last nail into the coffin. Regardless of the rainbows lining its facade at the gates of the Gayborhood, Woody's is not a gay bar. It is just another venue taking advantage of the neighborhood's address while giving little to nothing back to the community that built its name. If you're a straight woman and want to add a gay bar to your wedding day hangover, by all means, make it Woody's. I won't be there, and neither will my black, brown, or beige friends. And until Woody's acknowledges what it is, just another Green Eggs Cafe chock full of white women, I'll gladly hashtag #BoycottWoodys. Just stay away from U-Bar. We need somewhere to cruise without some Bath & Body Works scented debutante telling us what a waste we are before 9am on Monday.

#boycottwoodys

#boycottwoodys

On Thursday, PhillyMag.com posted Ernest Owens' justifiably brutal takedown of the Gayborhood's popular Woody's nightclub over an apparent dress code that appears to be targeting men and women of color. It came about when Kenmar Jones was turned away at the door after performing with FringeArts for wearing sweatpants and sneakers. Vaguely worded or un-posted dress codes have been used for decades to target "urban" clientele by prohibiting everything from tracksuits to brand-specific items like Timberland boots, and this is hardly the first time Woody's has come under fire over its admission policies.

Jones' story echoes the tactics that inspired Chic's song, Le Freak which found its origins in a similar incident wherein the disco band was denied entry into Studio 54 despite an invite from Grace Jones. According to guitarist Nile Rogers and bassist Bernard Edwards, Chic promptly returned to their hotel on New Years of 1977 and wrote the song, only with its original lyrics substituting "freak out" with "fuck off." The story has become musical lore and a neat piece of trivia, but it speaks to a darker piece of Americana, one steeped in what's being referred to as covert racism, and Jones' own experience at Woody's is evidence that it is alive and well in Philadelphia.

Covert or overt, racism is racism. But the importance of distinguishing the two is that the former allows the offender to sidestep responsibility by blaming things like dress codes. The black hole of social media in Tweets and comments only enables the offense by further excusing it by crying "who wears sweatpants to a bar?"

Woody's is no exception when it comes to exclusionary and discriminatory entrance or ejection calls. Last year I saw a man booted from the club for being painted silver, on Halloween of all nights. The bouncer said there were concerns of the bar tops being marred in paint, but a few minutes before he was asked to leave he had kissed his girlfriend. It's rather ironic that Woody's, a gay bar that's become synonymous with straight bridal parties and frat house scavenger hunts, would ask a straight couple to leave because of a very brief moment of PDA, but that makes the venue's rules all the more frustrating. It also gives themselves a bit of slack when taking cash from hoards of straight women by allowing them to say, "remember when we threw out that straight guy?"

Nevertheless, there is a very real reason that gay bars typically don't enforce dress codes, and that's because their existence, the need for their existence, is already exclusionary in nature: they aren't for everyone. Gay bars are an alternative entertainment option for a still-marginalized segment of the population, the LGBT community. And to look at a typical Saturday night crowd at Woody's, it's very apparent that its owners, the Weiss brothers, have forgotten that.

Attend Woody's as a gay man and you'll feel a bit like an animal in a zoo. Straight couples point and whisper while gaggles of women, usually white, hunt for their next accessory, a GBFF. These people are not our allies, if they were they'd be marching with us. To them, we're a handbag to tote with them to Green Eggs Cafe the next morning. By Monday and a Facebook friend request we're thrown in the jewelry box next to a dozen earrings they'll never wear again. 



To be fair, these aren't the covert racists enforcing Woody's discriminatory entrance policies, but they are inadvertently responsible for it, and in so covertly racist. To Woody's-the-business, bridal parties and business happy hours are money, money that wouldn't be there if the bar was truly representative of the vastly diverse LGBT community. Black, Hispanic, Asian, trans, butch, femme, fat, thin, muscular, twink, and everything in between, gay bars are important because it happens to literally everyone, and the Orlando Massacre proved that we still need safe spaces, and Woody's has proven time and again that it isn't one of them. 

On one hand, it might be a blessing that Woody's has become the gay bar du jour for straight people who still think going to a gay bar is some kind of urban safari. If it weren't for Woody's, bridal showers might be pushing their way into U-Bar and Tabu. But the mere mentality that gay bars are on the bachelorette to-do-list speaks to the larger point that this demographic is encroaching on and usurping the few places we have to be ourselves. Before same sex marriage was legalized last summer, these events were especially insulting, and since we've had marriage equality adding a gay bar to the bridal crawl has exploded. Why? Because this demographic can't stand it when something isn't about them. 

Beyond the doors of Woody's, this mentality has infected Philadelphia's Gayborhood like a swarm of locusts. Despite countless neighborhood and nightclub venues throughout the city, they've charged into the Gayborhood and rebranded it the callously named Midtown Village. How is that okay? People pitch a fit if you refer to the Italian Market by its historic namesake, the 9th Street Market, and we'd never consider rebranding Chinatown as Market East Village. Yet with dozens of street signs and rainbow crosswalks at 13th and Locust, it's somehow okay for realtors, and even the city, to rename one of the oldest gay enclaves in the country and the first city to utter the word "Gayborhood." 

We should be more pissed off than we are.

That's not okay. I understand Woody's is a business, and they're in the business of making money. I understand that Philadelphia's Gayborhood sits on vast acreage of developable real estate. But straight people have literally every other neighborhood in the city and hundreds of nightlife venues, and members of the LGBT community still come to cities like Philadelphia to seek community and even safety. With LGBT youths, especially of color, making up a huge chunk of the nation's homeless, Woody's catering to a largely white heterosexual community isn't just an annoyance, it's irresponsible to the community they still claim to represent. 

It's time to hammer the last nail into the coffin. Regardless of the rainbows lining its facade at the gates of the Gayborhood, Woody's is not a gay bar. It is just another venue taking advantage of the neighborhood's address while giving little to nothing back to the community that built its name. If you're a straight woman and want to add a gay bar to your wedding day hangover, by all means, make it Woody's. I won't be there, and neither will my black, brown, or beige friends. And until Woody's acknowledges what it is, just another Green Eggs Cafe chock full of white women, I'll gladly hashtag #BoycottWoodys. Just stay away from U-Bar. We need somewhere to cruise without some Bath & Body Works scented debutante telling us what a waste we are before 9am on Monday.

#boycottwoodys

Sunday, September 11, 2016

Get Away to Rainbow Mountain

If you're like most Philadelphians, you're eager for the dog days of summer to end. I've lived in Center City longer than any address, so I should be use to the heat, the humidity, and "that Philly smell." But I'm not. Like the farm I grew up on, "that Philly smell" is akin to a corporate chicken farm, and a smell you never grow accustomed to. It's just gross. But luckily for Philadelphians, we're a densely packed reeking city an hour or two away from beautiful beaches and untouched mountains. 

For Labor Day weekend I opted against the crowded shore towns and headed north to the Poconos. The Poconos - a word that can't be uttered without a rural Pennsylvania accent - is perhaps as unique as Philadelphia in that it is just as untapped. You might not find the gingham-clad socialites you'll meet in the Adirondacks or their signature chair, but you'll find the same wilderness, vistas, and lakes at a fraction of the price.

I chose Rainbow Mountain, an LGBT report equidistant from Philadelphia and New York, and a throwback to the retreats that inspired the movie Dirty Dancing. Gay, straight, trans, or anything in between, you need to experience Rainbow Mountain near Stroudsburg, PA because it is a unique something that might not exist for much longer. 


Today's mountain resorts are five star. They allow you to get away from it all while keeping up with your spa treatments and cross fit classes. Rainbow Mountain is not that. Rainbow Mountain, with its musty cottages and dorm rooms, is an untouched enclave that harkens back to an era when the middle class roughed it in basic cabins. 

Today, "roughing it" is one of two things: either in the woods under a tent Bear Grylls style, or in a "cabin" worth more than your house. Either way, it's an Instagram-op that has more to do with your bed than the nature around you.

Rainbow Mountain isn't about the accommodations, it's about the experience. It's a decent mattress and a good night's sleep that comes with a swimming pool and an old fashioned barn dance. To locals, Rainbow Mountain is the answer to a gay bar, and a pretty fabulous one at that.  To visitors, it truly is a comfy place to get away from it all. It's a short drive to the Delaware Water Gap, kayaking, bike trails, and frigid swimming holes. Stroudsburg is a charming town, surprisingly hip, with great shopping and restaurants. 

My only complaint is that it's a bit too close to New York, and New Yorkers. At about ten times the population of Philadelphia, New Yorkers are like locusts that ruin everything within a three hour path of their wake. Some trails are littered with Dunkin' Donuts cups and tagged with graffiti. Other nature trails house relics of the Industrial Revolution, unique in their own right, but not places of natural solace. In the resort itself, you'll be hard pressed to find a Pennsylvanian that isn't local to the county, but rather Manhattanites - or worse, Brooklynites - eager to namedrop their address. 

Still, Rainbow Mountain's cozy cottages, large swimming pool, its lake, and shows are well worth the two hour drive. You'll dance, drink, meet some incredibly friendly local drag queens, and have stories for years. Currently, Rainbow Mountain is for sale, so enjoy it while it lasts. Its location is a goldmine, and with a fresh coat of paint and a few trips to Home Goods, it could be transformed into something that could command twice the price. These '60s era retreats are becoming few and far between, and Rainbow Mountain is a time capsuled treasure. If you really want to get away - from it all - it's the place for you...for now.

Radnor Hunt Concours d'Elegance

If your a fan of high society, Sunday hats, and finely crafted automobiles, Philadelphia's backyard has been host to the mid-Atlantic's foremost car show for two decades. This weekend was Radnor Hunt's twentieth Concours d'Elegance, and it's one of the best places to see the most amazing automotive works of art this side of Pebble Beach. 

When the bar for events accessible to most is the BYO-everything Diner en Blanc, it's easy to see that Philadelphians are accustomed to settling for the status quo. Our urban renaissance is a clear indication that we are thirsty for more, but there is another world within the region that has never settled, and Malvern's Radnor Hunt and its Concours is emblematic of that world. 

In short, it's money.

The Concours d'Elegance isn't cheap. I snagged two general admission tickets for $40 a piece, but to attend the entire three day event will set you back more than a grand. I couldn't tell you if the black-tie gala, dinner, or road rally are worth a month of my rent, but I'm pretty sure that those who attend don't really care about a cool G. I can tell you though, as an enthusiast, the general admission is well worth it. 

Two gull-wing Mercedes SLs worth more than I'll see in my lifetime.

For those not privy to the everyday Main Line, you'll see dozens of cars you've only ever seen in magazines. This year's featured car was the Lancia, a quirky Italian carmaker many people have never heard of. I've always heard the Lancia referred to as the "poor man's Ferrari," but the classics on display were anything but poor. This year's show also featured three gull-wing Mercedes SLs, each worth about $1.5M. In fact, with more than a hundred classic cars on display, plus FC Kerbeck's stock of new exotics, the collective value of the show was easily worth more than the Comcast Center.

Again: money.

But you don't need to be rich, or an automotive enthusiast, to enjoy the Concours. For such a bougie event at such a restrictive venue, visitors and vendors were incredibly friendly. Owners were often on site and eager to talk about their investments. It's easy to look at a fully restored Packard and assume its owner is both loaded and snotty. But like any hobby, the enthusiasts run the gamut. Some are wealthy collectors, others sunk savings into their dream cars, and even more put time and energy into barn-finds.

Obviously the focus of the event were the cars, but there were also antique horse drawn carriages, motorcycles, and a fabulous musical trio called The American Bombshells that travel to veterans and perform at USO shows. And then there were the hats. Oh, the hats. What Sunday afternoon at a hunt club would be complete without a pageant of colorfully plumed, wide brimmed hats? The Sunday hats could have been a show of their own. 

So next summer, if you're looking for something a cut above the rest and want to catch a glimpse of Philadelphia's high society, take a short drive out to horse country. You'll see some things you will never see anywhere else, hear some great music, and get to sit behind the wheel of a car worth more than your house. Maybe next year I'll see what else the Concours d'Elegance has to offer - the gala, the road race, the dinner - perhaps if I start saving now.

Monday, August 15, 2016

Frank Furness on Jewelers Row

A lot has been said about Toll Brothers potentially demolishing a significant portion of Jewelers Row for a high-rise apartment building as well as the state of historic preservation in Philadelphia, much of it more eloquent than I could ever put it.

Jewelers Row is one of Center City's gems, our equivalent to South Philadelphia's 9th Street Market or Fabric Row. It's unique, old, a little gritty, and everything you'd come to expect from what Philadelphia's Historical Commission should be protecting. But surprisingly, it's not, thanks to an oversight

Well, one building within Toll Brothers line of site on Jewelers Row could stop the wrecking ball, or at least offer a stay of execution. Take a look at 710 Sansom Street. 

710 Sansom Street, Jewelers Row
The architect is unknown, at least according to the Athenaeum's Philadelphia Architects and Buildings site. But if you're a fan of Philadelphia architecture, the C.E. Robinson & Bros. building might look suspiciously Furnessian to you. 

Frank Furness worked within this neighborhood in the mid to late 19th Century, and 710's brickwork and carved crowns reflect his signature style. While this building may not be protected, Frank Furness is something of an architectural god in the Philadelphia area and any connection, particularly if this was designed by Furness himself or his firm, could be enough for the Historical Commission to intervene.

So what do you think?

Could this have been designed by Frank Furness, his firm, or one of his students? 

Does the Historical Commission have the authority to intervene if it was designed by Furness?

And if this were hastily demolished, only to find out after the fact that it was designed by Frank Furness, would this be enough of a lesson in loss to truly improve how we address preservation in Philadelphia? 

Sunday, July 31, 2016

Be Proud, Philadelphia


Be proud and stand tall. The stars of last week's Democratic National Convention may have been Hillary Clinton, Barack and Michelle Obama, and those who echoed the humility and enlightenment of Freedom loving Americans in both their passion for our Democratic nominee or their right to dissent. 

In stark contrast to the Republican National Convention's hate fueled and reactionary rhetoric, party disillusionment, and fear laden anxiety over potential violence in Cleveland, Philadelphia's DNC was one fueled solely by passion from all points of view, and left the stage at the Wells Fargo Center, Center City, and Broad Street littered with optimism and insight. 

The Democrats did good. But Philadelphia did even better. As politicians returned to Washington, our elected nominees went on to campaign in Harrisburg and Ohio, and the national media returned to their own cities, the unsung heroes of the DNC are undoubtedly Philadelphia's Men and Women in Blue.

Police Commissioner Richard Ross said it best, "If you go in like you are preparing for a fight, that's what you'll get." A simple message that would be best heeded throughout the rest of the country. We didn't see walls of Men in Black, assault rifles, military vehicles, and intimidation. We saw our servants doing what they were trained to do: assisting, protecting, all with a smile that said "Welcome to Philadelphia." 

It's hard to say if the same would be the case had the RNC been held here. The Republican campaign is far more contentious, and insane. But that doesn't matter. Last week's convention was the complete opposite of 2000's riotous one, and all that matters is we pulled it off and looked good doing it.

Of course last week wouldn't be over without a critique of it all, and plenty of media outlets - both local and national - have both praised us and called out our faults. 

From the start, social media erupted with the expected knee-jerk Philly-hate. We're used to that. In a way, the national press's love-hate relationship with Philadelphia is a compliment to our city. Unlike more depressed cities, Cleveland is a good example, Philadelphia is large enough and powerful enough to be used as a punching bag. Kicking Detroit makes a reporter look like a bully. Kicking Philadelphia just makes them feel better about their problems back home. We can take it, and they know that. 

The criticisms were largely, if not exclusively, irrational. There were long lines of traffic getting in and out of the Wells Fargo Center. SEPTA's token fare system was dubbed "quaint." There weren't enough Ubers. And it was hot.

I shouldn't have to delve into the hypocritical irony of Left leaning delegates driving and seeking out cabs a block from a subway stop while snubbing one of the most expansive rail systems in the country. But I'll touch on it:

"CARBON FOOTPRINT!" "GLOBAL WARMING!" "Oh, hey, did you call an Uber?"

SEPTA was faced with the ultimate Catch 22. Show off a subway system a lot of Americans don't know exists while worrying how many riders will call out the odoriferous Broad Street Line. As if New York's trains smell like potpourri or the Washington Metro's cold Brutalism looks like something this side of a Pyongyang wet dream. SEPTA was prepared despite losing its fleet of Silverliner V trains, but probably relieved that the system wasn't overwhelmed. 

And the weather. It was hot. It stormed. And people shook their fists at the skyline, smartphone in hand, and Tweeted their ire at our city. If I could control the weather I would have, but only if social media hadn't been such a dick about it. Karma unleashed one last thunderstorm on Thursday night to wash away the hostility, offering an unseasonably autumnal Friday morning peaceful and quiet.



If last week taught me anything, it was that my two and a half years inside the Beltway were two and a half too many.

I may not be one of Philadelphia's native sons, but I'm local. Even with fifteen years under my belt and roots across the city and the region, I know don't need to be here that long to get it. We're urban, but not conventionally urban.

We're not in a hurry. We don't like being told what to do. And I know it doesn't always show, but we really don't like other people messing with our stuff. But despite our gruff stereotype, we're also extremely likable when you're not looking for the traditionally harried pace of an American metropolis. We smile at strangers. We hold doors. And we love it when visitors appreciate our hidden treasures. 

After the pains of the DNC's arrival began to settle, these gestures are what America began to appreciate about Philadelphia. We welcomed visitors to the city, not just in hotels and on tour busses, but on the streets. For some reason a city notorious for expecting the worst was brimming with quizzical excitement over the arrival of the DNC. Perhaps some of our anxieties have been quelled after last year's uneventful Papal Visit. Perhaps Philadelphia's voice is being passed on to a more optimistic generation. Or perhaps we are finally beginning to acknowledge our self-worth as an influential American city.

I prefer to indulge in the latter. We are still Philadelphia. Whether we're today's 1.5 million, 1950's 2 million, or 3 million in fifty years, we never have and never will function as a big city. We are a city taken care of by and for itself, and our leaders are accessible and as chatty on the street as a neighbor. 

When visitors arrive expecting the same red carpet they find elsewhere, this throws them for a loop. We want visitors, but we accommodate our own first. This doesn't just set us apart from tourism driven comparisons like New York or Washington, it also sets us apart from cities like the RNC's host, Cleveland. 

If delegates, the media, and visitors had any problems with Philadelphia's ability to host the DNC, it was with the fact that we are a working city with a working core, and both are growing. Center City and South Philadelphia can't be entirely upended to accommodate every creature comfort of our visitors. When any one of the media dipshits said Cleveland was a better host, what they meant was that Cleveland's downtown is dead, and a convention can be given carte blanche. 

That's certainly not to say we're incapable or failed, but that some visitors failed to recognize the everyday functional prowess of Philadelphia. Instead of expecting to be faced with the same headaches they'd find in New York or Chicago, they expected a city that could serve as a blank slate for every vice they needed. They were simply lazy and uninformed. Philadelphia is a big deal, and some had no idea. 

Still, despite some derogatory comments from the media and visitors, we succeeded. The true failures in past events have been put to rest. History won't remember the Tweets, but a DNC and a Philadelphia full of peaceful protests, brilliant speeches, and a police force that worked with the convention and all attendees, not against them.

In the end, history will remember two things: key speakers and the city's skyline. Visitors, lobbyists, pundits, and Beltway Lobotomites will all be quickly forgotten, buried beneath the heap of the internet and tomorrow's next story.

To us, some visitors may have been the world's worst houseguests. They showed up three days early, unannounced. They spent a week bitching about the house we just renovated. And I think one wiped his ass on our fine linens before clogging up the toilet, only to leave brandishing a middle finger. 

To those select few, I offer our collective "Fuck You." 

But they were a very select few. In the end, praise far outweighed the criticism, something Philadelphia is just getting used to. Al Roker tried scrapple. Mo Rocca ate a cheesesteak. And Ed Rendell attributed words to Philadelphia that could only describe America's Shangri-La. 

We did it. Be proud. Now go back to doing what makes Philadelphia the best city in the world: work hard, be real, and don't a shit what anyone else says about you.