Excited to enter a new era of JGT Quizzo, as we kick off our inaugural quiz at Dock Street South (2112 Washington Avenue). Action starts tonight at 8 pm. Hope to see you there! This week’s schedule is below:
TUESDAY
WEDNESDAY
THURSDAY
We are kicking off a new quiz on Tuesday night, as I’ll be hosting quizzo at the new Dock Street South on 2112 Washington Avenue! Really excited about the venue. If you haven’t been there yet, it’s awesome. We’ll have drink specials, prizes, and Grand Opening Fun on Tuesday at 8 pm. Hope to see ya there!
Not as much locally to talk about this week, as I spent a long weekend in Richmond, but still some fun stuff to talk about:
What I’m Watching: Just watched Dolemite Is My Name on Netflix, and it was a hell of a lot of fun. Highly recommend. Love movies about people who aren’t the most talented or most gifted, but simply the most determined, and if there was any one word that described Rudy Ray Moore, it was “determined”. Reminded me of another Rudy. And the acting is terrific. Eddie Murphy is at his best, and Wesley Snipes is just terrific.
What I Learned This Week: That Ballad of a Thin Man by Bob Dylan was one of the main theme songs of the Black Panthers. From an article on Red Bull Music Academy: The song’s lyrics, which describe a man who enjoys watching circus geek shows, struck a chord with (Huey P.) Newton. He saw the titular character, Mr. Jones, as an upper class white man who indulged in exploring the black ghetto on Sunday afternoons to check out the prostitutes and inhabitants of the decaying community. The fictional Mr. Jones was a voyeur of sorts, and got off on watching what Newton called a freak show...According to Newton, the circus freaks mentioned in the song, including the sword swallower and the one-eye midget, represent the disadvantaged ghetto residents who aren’t interested in serving as entertainment for Mr. Jones. They instead demand payment for a trick or some food or drink. Otherwise, they’d like Mr. Jones to shove off and go home.
What I’m Reading: Great 1985 Esquire piece on Dr J. Interesting dude, and a great article. Can’t imagine too many elite athletes today discussing the tenets of religion with a reporter.
But it wasn’t until our discussion in his office, during a laborious spiel of mine concerning the duty of the seeker to examine the varieties of religious experience, that Julius began to get pissed.
“I just can’t agree,” he said, “because even if you do manage to synthesize all these systems, what good is it going to do you? Even if you’re the smartest man on earth, even if you’re Albert Einstein, you’ll still only have a thimbleful of all the knowledge in the world. Where does that lead you? Digging and grinding on this unbelievable quest? Is there happiness in that? So it comes down to making concessions … down to knowing you’re not the wisest or the smartest, not the ultimate of anything, but knowing too that you have this powerful need to grasp something meaningful, something purposeful … you want a way, a way that makes sense for you, that you can embrace.”
The guy who wrote it, Marc Jacobson, would 15 years later do a piece on Franck Lucas that would be the inspiration for American Gangster. Also worth a read.
Where I’m eating and drinking: Xiandu Thai. I’ve really come to love this place over the past few months. My move is to get their for pickup before 7, have a Happy Hour cocktail while I wait for my takeout, and then come home a conquering hero with terrific Thai food. Get the lychee martini! This past time I got the the drunken noodles and the pineapple fried rice, but no matter what I get there it’s great. It’s my favorite Thai place in Philly.
Goofy Little Project I’m Working On: I started this awhile back, took a long break, and just started back on it. I’m a huge fan of the book Travels in Philadelphia by Christopher Morley (you can read the entire book online, though I’d suggest you get a physical copy if you really like it.) I decided awhile back to start an instagram page where I went back to places he wrote about in the late 1910s for the Philadelphia Evening Ledger and take pictures of them 100 years later. Kind of fun to see what’s changed and what’s the same after this much time.
In what city was Edgar Allan Poe born?
After 16 years, we’re going out with a bang at O’Neals. Barring any popular demand to bring it back, we all think it’s been a great run but time to move on. $3.50 Mexican beers, lots of giveaways, and to celebrate 40 years in business, $4 40s. And it’s the start of Halloween Spooktacular week. Make it happen tonight!
What I’m listening to: Ok so let’s get the nepotism out of the way; the artist known as Reef the Lost Cauze is one of my best friends in Philly. He’s the kind of guy that everyone who knows him considers one of their best friends. He’s just got that kind of energy where to know the guy is to love him. But before I knew him as a friend, I knew his music, and I truly thought him to be right up there with Black Thought among Philly MCs. He still occupies that rare air, and his latest album was his masterpiece. The Majestic is an album of heartbreak, anguish, but most of all, love. Check out this song about his second born son that he performed on XPN. He also just released a new video this week, and it’s another tour de force about family. It’s a song about his grandparents, and it pulls you in right off the bat with the blues guitar riff and the first few lines:
Well the old man is dead, his wife is in a home
And just like that my childhood is gone
Forever never seems that long until you're grown
Never thought you'd pass away I assumed you were made of stone
It’s a beautiful paean to two of the most important people in his life, and will have you thinking about your grandparents as well. It’ll also have you interested in his album. You should listen to it, then buy it. Support local artists, but even moreso, support a classic album.
What else you should be listening to: You should be listening to the latest edition of the Philly Blunt, this one with legendary Philly mob writer George Anastasia. If you’ve ever wanted to learn about the Philly Mob, this is an excellent opportunity. He tells all and holds back nothing, talking about Skinny Joey, Frank Bruno, and why the mob isn’t as powerful as it was 40 years ago. If you enjoy the interview, do us a solid and leave us a 5-star rating on itunes. And remember: “vice is commerce”.
Where I’m eating: The Nan Zhou Hand Drawn Noodle House in Chinatown is a damn gem. Had the chicken stir fry this time and it was out of this world. Had soup the last time I was there and it was great as well. Can’t recommend this spot enough.
Where I’m getting coffee/tea: Stumbled across Bloomsday this past week while walking through Headhouse Square, and wow! What a space! It’s a wine bar as well, but I was there in the afternoon and I haven’t quite reached the point of drinking wine at 2 pm on a random Wednesday. So I got a Macha Latte (because I’m a fancy boy) and enjoyed the hell out of the scenery. Really cool space. Can’t wait to go back for wine.
Where I’m Getting a Beer: Holy shit, have you guys been to the Craft Hall yet? You probably have, because judging by the crowd there on a rainy Sunday I was the only one who didn’t know about it. It. Is. Awesome. Packed on a Sunday afternoon, and extremely kid friendly, it has a playground and on Sunday had pumpkin carving. Could have killed a whole day there if I didn’t have a damn family. Just kidding! My wife and kid loved it too, and we had to pull ourselves away. It’s in the old Yards Brewery space right next to Sugarhouse.
We’re honoring the two teams in this year’s Fall Classic by having a Washington vs Houston quiz. Hope to see you this week!
NOTE: No quiz on Wednesday at Founding Fathers due to Sixers opener. We’ll be back there next week. All other quizzes on as planned.
What I’m watching: In preparation for our interview with George Anastasia for the Philly Blunt this week, I watched this National Geographic special on the Philly Mob (which features Anastasia quite a bit). It’s a fun watch, and gives you a good background on the past 50 years of the Philly mob. Interview drops on Monday and it’s a good one.
What I’m reading: Jemele Hill wrote a great piece in the Atlantic about LeBron James and the Hong Kong situation. I’m both massively disappointed in LeBron and massively disappointed in myself for believing that a business like the NBA really ever cared about anything other than money.
Oh, and my Pete Dexter book just arrived yesterday. Psyched!
Whose artwork I’m appreciating: Jenna, better known as @ifacepaint215. We took Avery to his friend Gabe’s birthday party last weekend. While the other kids were asking the facepainter to look like tigers and dragons, Avery said, “Make me look like a haunted house with a graveyard outside and also could we have a witch on a broom and a few ghosts escaping from the haunted house and a phantom walking in the graveyard?” Now this request came after she’d been facepainting all afternoon. But instead of doing what I would have done, which is packing everything up and quitting facepainting for good, she not only did everything he asked for but did an awesome job of it. If you need a facepainter, she’s your woman.
Where I’m grabbing a drink: Finally made it to Friday Saturday Sunday last weekend. Beautiful room, terrific drinks. How terrific? My wife got the Eggplant spritz. I hate eggplant and the damn drink was still delicious.
I got the Assassin’s Handbook, since it didn’t sound like anything I’ve ever had (what in the hell is cognac, really?). It was spicy (habanero!) and strong and tasted great on a cool Fall night. The space is beautiful, made me a feel a bit like I was in the bar in the Shining (that’s a compliment!). It’s a really fun place to grab a drink, and I’ve heard the food is great too.
Where I’m eating: Few places in the city where I love to eat more than Blue Corn in the Italian Market. Right next door to one of my favorite Italian places, Villa di Roma. Two first class restaurants, with no frills and no bells and whistles, just absolutely great food and drink. It’s a reminder of what a huge positive immigration has been for Philadelphia, and the importance of family in the two cultures that currently dominate the Italian Market: 15 family members work at Blue Corn, while Pip Deluca and his 5 siblings work at Villa Di Roma. You get that family feel when you walk into both. Really might be my favorite side by side restaurant combo in the city.
Got the Blue Tacos this week, and they were terrific. Can’t recommend this place enough. For what it’s worth neither can Craig Laban.
Until next week, if you enjoyed it, click like below. Be sure to follow me on Instagram, twitter, and facebook. And while you’re at it, follow the Philly Blunt on IG as well. We’re doing some incredible interviews on the show.
“Shut the f*ck up,” are the first words out of my mouth most mornings. I know that makes me sound crude and uncivilized, but when an animal the size of a breadbox is screaming in your face at 6:15 am, a time when you’d saw off your right arm with child-proof scissors for another hour of sleep, I don’t think it’s unreasonable. Typically I’ll then push her off my bed, which is basically a couch from a nice neighborhood.*
“MEOW!” she’ll scream from the floor.
“Please…PLEASE!” I’m begging now. “Shut…Up! PLEASE!” It has no effect.
“Meow!” Having been tossed from the trundle bed, she exacts her revenge in the hallway, knowing that my wife can now hear the meows from the other room, and if SHE has to get up an hour early on a work morning to feed the damn cat, I’LL be the bad guy.
“Meow!” A decibel higher. So I lay, one eye open, a battle raging in my mind over which is worse, losing an hour of beloved sleep or having my wife mad at me because she had to get up early. My decision is obvious, and I begin the slow slog down the stairs.
In October of 2001, my girlfriend Colby, my buddy from Hawaii Duff, and I had decided on somewhat of a lark to move to Philadelphia with essentially no money in the bank, and after a couple of weeks grew tired of sitting on camping chairs.
I lived on 6th Street, just south of South Street, in the old Levi’s Hot Dog building. It wasn’t far from where much fancier people put decent furniture out on the sidewalks on Mondays. One day, when walking home from another disastrous lunch shift at Sfizzio’s (where Zahav is now…that’s a whole other story), I came across a small sectional on the curb, and as I had a friend from work with me, decided to take it to the apartment. Initially, the small sofa was the height of luxury for guys who had spend the first two weeks in Philly in camping chairs. But it held a dark secret: it was inhabited by mice, and within a few days they had begun to attack the kitchen. It was time for a cat.
Colby and I went to the Morris Animal Refuge just before Halloween with the intent of taking home a kitten, but we saw two who were brother and sister and didn’t have the heart to tear them apart from each other. So we took home two kittens, who we named Popiko (it means “cat” in Hawaiian, we shortened it to Popo) and Malia (after a mischievous dolphin that I loved when I worked at Dolphin Quest in Hawaii) in the hopes that they would alleviate the mouse problem.
Popo was the early star, active and excitable the way a kitten should be, never catching mice but letting his presence be known. Malia, on the other hand, spent most her time chasing her own tail and staring at candles. So it came as a shock when one night Malia hopped up on our “coffee table” (technically a piece of wood placed on top of milk crates) with a mouse in her mouth. She was hailed as a conquering heroine, and the pride she found that night has carried her through to this day.
Colby and I broke up a year later, and for some godforsaken reason I demanded to keep the damn cats when I moved in with a work friend in early 2003. One night that spring, a door in the back was left open, and Malia disappeared. Frantically, I made up posters and hung them on telephone poles. I then walked into the back alley calling her name.
“Malia! Malia!” Finally I heard a meow, loud but coming from a distance. I looked over walls, behind alleyway detritus, until finally I decided to look up. Stunned, I saw her perched atop the second story roof of a nearby house. How she got up there will always be one of life’s great mysteries. In the meantime, I had to figure out how to get her down. I went home, grabbed a ladder, and tied a shoestring to it. I climbed the ladder to the top of a back porch, then MacGuyver-style lifted the ladder up by the string. I climbed it again, and leaning tenuously (as one does atop a ladder on a flimsy deck porch) I reached for her. I was hoping to expedite the process, knowing that at any second a neighbor could be dialing the police in reference to a man on a ladder on top of a nearby porch deck. Playfully she avoided my reach and went to rub up against a nearby chimney.
“You little bitch,” I muttered under my breath to no-one in particular. “Malia, come here.” She meowed, rubbed up against the chimney one more time, then pranced over my way. I grabbed her, dropped the ladder down one floor by the shoestring, and together we descended.
The past 18 years have gone whirring by, and she’s been there for just about all of it: multiple roommates, girlfriends, and other pets moving in and out. She has taken it all in stride. Like most cats if there’s food in the bowl come morning and again in the afternoon, the rest takes care of itself. After six years apart, Colby returned to Philly and we got back together, then got married. Malia could have cared less, though it did give her one more human to draw heat from when the weather turned cold. Once we had a kid, there were two.
Let’s not get overly romantic here: once you have a dog, a wife, and a kid, the cat takes a backseat, and becomes more of a chore than a close companion. But she went missing again in October of 2015, and I found myself once again desperately searching the back alleys of the neighborhood for her, posting flyers on telephone poles again, looking under nearby parked cars. Don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone, I suppose. After a couple of weeks of fruitless searching, my buddy Vaughn came by to help me hit up a few alleys. After an hour or so, we called it quits.
“You put up signs, you’ve spent days searching through alleys for her, you’ve done everything you can do,” he said. “Now it’s for the universe to decide.”
I would continue to walk to the wall in our back yard, call out her name, and shake the cat food, but once we past the month milestone it seemed to be little more than a pitiful habit. Until, one night, I saw something move down the alley.
“Malia!” I cried. She ignored my call and kept scurrying towards the gate at the end of the alley that emptied onto Pemberton, slid through the grates, and ran across the street.
The next night, I walked back there again. I was about 75% sure I had seen Malia the night before, but couldn’t be certain. I peered into the alley again. There she was. “Malia! It’s me! Come here!” She looked up, saw me, and sauntered back the other way.
“You little bitch,” I muttered under my breath to no-one in particular. At this point I was just annoyed. “Well she’s had her chance to come back. She knows where we are.” I stomped back into the house.
It was late October, and the next night the temperature dropped drastically. Sure enough, Malia came prancing back into the yard. The queen, after a month abroad, was ready to be pampered, fed, cleaned up after, and most importantly kept warm by her people.
Her brother died in 2019, at age 17. He was, for about the past decade leading up to his death, an old man: feeble, sickly, and cranky. He existed to eat and ate to exist and the rest of it was bollocks. Malia is quite different. She has always enjoyed it when company comes over. She loves being rubbed on the head and adored and worshipped like the goddess she undoubtedly is in her own mind. A few months ago she decided she was sick of cat food, and simply stopped eating. She was essentially on a hunger strike, and willing to die for the cause. And so we started buying tuna fish, which she enjoyed for the next month, until she decided she was ready for cat food again.
Is there a moral here? Have I learned anything over the past 18 years, other than “Maybe shoulda gotten a dog”? I don’t know. Does there need to be? Isn’t that kind of the point of cats, that there is no point, they just confound you by hopping in front of the coffee pot, fridge, or sink, wherever it is that you’re trying to get to? That their existence is driven not by love or affection but by food and body heat, and that we spend thousands and thousands of dollars over the years to give them both? There’s probably some sort of moral about unconditional love buried in here somewhere, but my sleep deprivation has left me incapable of articulating it. I’ll just leave it to the universe to decide.
*My wife and kid sleep in the “good” bed, as he has taken over my role as “preferred cuddler” in this house, and the cat and I sleep on what I only found out three weeks ago was called a trundle bed.
Epilogue: Malia passed away on July 30, less than three months short of her 20th birthday. We will miss her terribly. And we will roll our eyes and laugh….a lot…whenever her name is brought up.
