collegiate diversion

We joked on the way down here that it’s called Killadelphia.
But I know some guys now who would think differently.
They would say “this is Realadelphia” and the people you meet just tell you how it is.

You can call me “Boston” all you want, it won’t change the way I feel about you. And now your hand is on my ass in all the wrong context.

I wandered into the city tonight with the mission to meet fascinating people. My quest 40 blocks later left me with vivid memories and sore feet.

How could you ever live in a city? I would pick myself apart with all the beautiful woman prancing in the newest vintage trends. I would compare myself constantly and leave nothing out.

But seeing as today I am just a tourist, I admire. And shop hopelessly. All of it, in this city, feels really good.

The fascinating part about the city is all of the sounds, with traffic and streetlights controlling, the noise ebbs and flows.
Crescendo,
decrescendo,
“Hey pretty lady! Suck my cock!,”
“Please help a veteran miss, I’m dying.”

It all comes and goes. And it’s all really beautiful. Well, err, interesting. A fascinating social experiment at least.

WE TOOK MILLIONS OF DEMENTED PEOPLE AND PUT THEM IN A REGION WITH TALL BUILDINGS>>>A NEW REALITY TV SHOW CONCEPT!

Whoops.

Everyone here smokes too much too., she said admittedly confessing that in the city, it just feels right that she smoke cigarettes.

“You smoke?”
“I mean yeah, sometimes, but I don’t inhale.”
“Naw girl, I mean weed.”
“Aw nah, I’m trying to quit……………………………..”

THIS is a LIE.

I always say “I’m trying to quit” because it makes me seem cool, and like I’m a bad-ass. Take note, kids.

“I smoke soooooo much dope, that I need to quit. I am THAT cool.”
Even though I really, between you and me?
I really don’t.

“Up on a State street yo, they throw you in prison for that shit.”

Jimmy, or SLIM as he like to be called,
NOT like SLIM SHADY, oh no! He was Slim first.

He got mixed up in heroine and they put him in prison for eight days for the possession.
When you’re address is HOMELESS St. he says,
(that is exactly what his file says in the computer),

they let you out quickly, because “the system needs to clear out” and “they’re ain’t no way a homeless man gonna pay $380 to get out.” You know what I’m saying?

So I met Slim and his right-hand man Anthony, who liked to be called Wolf, in front of the Philadelphia Convention Center. Members of this very angry organization were screaming into microphones how all the evils in the world could be found in the Bible and African-Americans don’t like to be called such because you don’t anything about them, and the White Man whores out their white women.

I tried to ask them questions and one of them just glared at me and said “No bitch, I don’t have no literature for the likes of you.”

Oh, how the journalistic integrity fails me!

Slim and Wolf wanted to get drinks so I walked with them, learning about their criminal records and Anthony’s goldfish. They said they were 25 years old but they forgot their Ids.

So, “like 15 year old boys” they paid a homeless man $20 for a bottle of SoCo.
I just watched for the most part, and took a sip here and there to be sociable.
To be cultural, I really wanted to get to the Historical District and see the crack in the Liberty Bell. And these guys didn’t budge when they said “we WILL walk you there.”

12 blocks later and we discover the Invisible Children group (http:///www.invisiblechildren.com) protesting on the Common in the center city district, waiting for some member of Fall Out Boy to come and rescue them. My buddies broke out the bottle and listened to me berate these high school girls with questions about the organization.

100 different protests world-wide (9 different countries!) and two drunken boys’ anecdotes later, I am walking around, buzzed with sore feet, lost and smiling with a worried mother on the phone.

“What are you doing hanging out with city guys? - Samantha, I’m worried. – Just call a cab. – We’ll google it, where are you? – This is so senseless Sam, walking around on your own. – Does your boyfriend know you’re hanging out with two OTHER GUYS?”

Oh. My. Goodness.

I am going to consider the soundtrack to my Philadelphia trip the ‘It’s Blitz’ album (new album, the YYYs, http:///www.yeahyeahyeahs.com) which I popped into my iPod for this trip. I listened to it emphatically after hanging-up (possibly ON?) my mother.

Anyway, specifically the RUNAWAY track. Absolutely beautiful tune.

It just seems really fitting.

Sitting cozy in my hotel room now with the other Society of Professional Journalists (http:///www.spj.org) officers, this conference has been fascinatingly eye-opening. I mean, woah. What a time.

I don’t really consider myself to be a lingerie kind of girl. I have indulged on a few occasions, in the clearance aisle at Marshall’s or at a vintage clothing store, skuzzy I know.

While garter belts post-20s era are pretty impractical, I don’t wear them very often and I like having them for me. It’s good for me, healthy for me. Something that gives me sexual confidence, like I need it. I do, actually.

I remember the last time we spent a weekend together, you talked about how sexy it would be to go shopping for something together. And it didn’t sound trashy or inappropriate, it sounded nice. Like we could indulge in my body together. The offer made me feel beautiful.

But then, and this was towards of the summer, towards the end of our romance which you told me was not a romance, you got busy. So busy, plans this, friends that, work here and there. I understood. Life = hectic. I know.

But I wanted you to look at me, like I love. The way you look at me that makes me come back to you constantly. I went to the store by myself, and I tried on a few different things, in clearance of course, but I wanted something great for you.

It was a fairly deprecating process. Trying on things that were too tight here, and not becoming there. Things that were strappy and slutty, thing that were elegant and lacey. I picked myself apart for you, I scrutinized over every square inch, for the perfect ensemble that would make you look at me and want me, maybe even love me.

I have never felt so alone, standing in the cold dressing room, watching my body react with goose bumps and all, wondering if you would still think I was pretty in the end, even with the lumps on my body.

I went to the register, and made my purchase. The woman behind the desk was very nice, telling me how popular the negligee I had decided on was, how she had it in two different colors. And this week it was half of! So yes, I tried to be excited. Told her I didn’t do this often, it was for someone so special.

I walked out of the store with my red slinky bag, and tried to feel proud of my purchases. I did, you would love it. But I made the mistake of calling you. Whipped out my cell phone, called you.

Me: Hey you. Guess what I just did?

And when I told you about the extravagance, you did not care. You broke my heart, surprise-surprise!, and I let you kill my confidence.

You (apathetically): Oh, that’s nice.

I was indignant though.

Me (indignantly, ending with a tremor of hope):I’d really like to see you soon, share this with you, you know?

You (coldly): Sam, I don’t know, okay? I’m really busy right now.

Oh god, and everything in the mall felt so tilted and bright. How had I played the game wrong, making you think I wasn’t so in love with you that you could never hurt me again? Keeping it casual and then throwing you off, so much that now you were running away?

Me (coolly, but not really): Oh yeah, well, whatever, you know, just give me a call. I’m around, just getting ready to maybe take a trip to New York soon.

I was trying so hard to let you know I wasn’t dying inside. And your goodbye was so curt.

But wait, this was your idea!

You wanted this. It was for you, and for me.

Now I am one of those sad people with a sad box under her bed, the tissue still wrapped around it. I never saw you after that, and spoke to you on the phone a few times since then. Not recently, it’s been three months of silence, since you confessed to being abusive. How could I not have figured that out sooner?

I couldn’t breathe that day. And since then, I haven’t really taken a deep breath when I think about you. You take my breath away, but why do people say that like it’s romantic? I feel like I’m gasping.

I just wanted to look good for you. And feel like I was good for you. Why couldn’t you have given me that goodness?

Good grief.

I mean, goodness.

I wish I could have coffee with you now.

And tell you how spectacular you look.

And how I’ve missed you.

And how I think I may have figured out so much about myself tonight. So I have to tell you everything in such grand detail.

Like we usually do.

The Izzys, this journalism thing. It was tonight:

“You’ve heard of the Oscars and the Emmys? Well, get ready for the Izzys, a night of journalistic celebration.”

Here goes it.

Well first, JOURNALISM SPEAKS TRUTH TO POWER. Isn’t that great? I mean, yeah, pen/mightier/sword, yes. Yes.

Glenn Greenwald made such a great point, addressing the state of journalism. Why do we call it independent journalism? How redundant! When journalism should always be indy. Instead, these assholes on the White House press corps feed the machine, become spokesmen instead of watchdogs.

There’s a reason it’s addressed in the Constitution. Freedom of speech, it’s so important.

Izzy Stone, according to his son, was very lonely. Do you see this? Perhaps, I could be lonely now and still be great someday (here’s hoping). He was so happy in his work, he said he thought he should be arrested. Maybe I could get there too.

Mmm.

The difference between bloggers and journalists are the mentality. Journalism seems so spoiled these days. A journalist should never be glad to say “yes, I PROP UP THE EXISTING ORDER.” No! It should be slashed, cut scrutinized, questioned. Always. I could do that, right? Someday, maybe?

I know you have faith in me, thanks for that.

More Greenwald. Sometimes reporters are just SYCOPHANTIC to the government. How nauseating. I mean, really. He called them “the media roaches,” really.

What is the role of journalists if not to expose?!
CONLUSION of GG (yes, we’re on a first initial/last initial basis):
IF IT’s NOT INDEPENDENT, THEN IT CAN’T BE JOURNALISM.

Yeah.

And then Amy Goodman. Who said media is so much more powerful than any missile, but when the Pentagon deploys, we have to take it back. Otherwise, we in the industry, are just propagandists.

Mainstream media becomes extreme media, banging on war drums, when it chants for war and outputs the stories of the Press Secretary (when Scott McClellan even said, he thought the press corps acted unprofessionally, not questioning any of his lies– he wrote that in his book! My god! How horribly depressing! And satirical).

And ripe with devastating example.

Why do they do that? The corporate conglomerate media. They make business from something that should be idealistically pure. It’s all just sickening. And realistic. You know me though, always the romantic.

The State, “the global warring, warming, and the economic meltdown…”

But I felt such a tremor of hope, they pronounced faith in the “kids,” studying journalism, trying really hard, optimistically.

“We need to break through the sounds barrier.”

I cried then. I really do want to do this. But you knew that about me. You know at least, I’m really going to try.

Democracy is a messy thing, she said. And she autographed her book for me, saying “Dear Samantha, Keep Democracy Now!”

I’m at least, going to try.