MKOTBlog

Last night a few friends and I tried to go to Blarney (a campus bar, for you non-Penn readers) and experienced something quite absurd. My British friend and I, both 21, got rejected from the bar because we didn’t own US identification. Apparently the employees of Blarney had attended some “conference” where they created a new policy by which they refused to accept or acknowledge non-US ID’s.

Seriously? I don’t really know the laws regarding this matter, so if someone could clarify this for me, it would be greatly appreciated. Perhaps I have no right to be confused, as maybe there is some legal loophole that I don’t know about that allows bar managers to make such decisions. Regardless of my lack of knowledge concerning this matter, I will still rant because I’m pissed off. It means that from now on, I won’t be allowed into the Blarney Stone unless I have a passport (who the hell carries around their passport to a bar?) or apply for a Pennsylvania state ID, which has absolutely no use for me except gaining access to some shitty bar. What is the logic? Are that many people using fake international ID’s? Or did the manager of Blarney just decide to make it harder for him/herself to run his/her business by driving away their customers, seeing as how they can’t even compete with Smoke’s, the other on-campus bar (Evidence: The huge line outside of Smoke’s last night vs. The maybe 15-20 lame asses sipping on drinks in Blarney)?

So fuck you Blarney, what the hell do you have against Brits and Canadians? I call upon you, the international students of Penn, to rise up against this tyrannical establishment spitting out its prejudices!!! First meeting of the International Students against Blarney will be held in Blarney, tonight.

I can’t remember the last 11 days of my life.

Okay, that’s probably a bit of a dramatic over-exaggeration, but the point still stands. After a rough morning of waking up at 5 am after two hours of sleep, flying back to Philadelphia (thankfully the plane was nearly empty), and almost napping through my LSAT class which was the reason for my early return (the rest of the guys are coming back tomorrow), I reflected back on the trip and realized I couldn’t distinguish the different days of our Georgia excursion. All the events and people blended together into an incomprehensible pile of miscellaneous memories… and it wasn’t for the lack of sleep.

The unfortunate thing is, its not like I was partying myself into a drunk coma every night, which would somewhat explain this mental week-long blackout. To be fair, overall I had a great time hanging out, relaxing, and taking in the new experiences of the Deep South. I do hold incredibly fond memories of golfing, catfishing, swimming, etc… however, unlike the Florida writing retreat of last year, I felt that the bad outweighed the good of this trip. As the week progressed, in conjunction with the mad cabin fever caused by the frequent thunderstorms and the general lack of things to do in Douglas (the best restaurant in town, for example, was a Ruby Tuesday), I began to realize that Mask and Wig, despite all its positives, is full of its share of drama and politics that have really begun to wear me thin, and that I no longer care to remember as distinct memories.

The worst part of it all, I realized this week, is the double-edged impact on friendships these types of organizations have. If it wasn’t for Mask and Wig, I probably wouldn’t have met all of my best friends in college, with whom I have shared life-defining experiences. This side of it, I would not change or give up for anything in the world. But on the other hand, as the years go by, and you get more involved with the behind-the-scenes work, I’ve realized that some people have stopped seeing each as other as friends, and rather only judge each other by the achievements they have accomplished within the context of the organization. I don’t place blame on anyone, as I am also guilty of doing this, but I’ve been incredibly disturbed and saddened by this trend, and only recently realized how common this was throughout the entire group.

Now, at this point, my dear friends and cast members of Mask and Wig, I have realized I have no idea what I’m trying to accomplish by writing this post. Don’t get me wrong, I love Wig, and believe whole-heartedly that it’s one of the best things to have ever happened to me. But it is also true that nothing else brings me more challenges and difficulties on a day to day basis. I guess all I’m trying to do is explain to you my quiet aloofness that some of you noticed this week. So that’s it.

On a positive note, though, I have come away with a back up plan to my life if my current non-existent life plan fails: a veterinarian. Well, not really, because to become a vet requires years of education… so a pet-owner. But I guess owning a pet isn’t really a career, so let me rephrase: I have come away with a back up hobby for my life, regardless of whether or not my current non-existent life plan fails. As any of the guys will attest, I was found at any given point during the week playing with Pat’s dog, Misty. I didn’t care that it was covered with fleas and smelled like, well, a bad-smelling dog, but I couldn’t help but play with it, feed it, and pet it all week long. And then, half way through the trip, a stray but incredibly gentle cat started to follow us around in the neighborhood. It eventually made Pat’s house its home (which I’m sure the family isn’t all that crazy about) and whenever I wasn’t hanging out with the dog, I was playing with and feeding the cat. Normally I HATE cats, and still probably will hate most cats, but this was one was too cute and amazing. Anyway, I picked up a new nickname on this trip: the dog whisperer. So watch out if you have a dog, because I will be… okay, I’ll stop right there because this passage already sounds incredibly creepy.

______________________________________________

And in other, completely unrelated yet exciting news: I have been accepted to be a blogger for The Spin, the Daily Pennsylvanian’s opinion blog! I don’t know any specific details yet, but stay tuned…

Thoughts?

For the second time in just as many weeks, I was back at the Philadelphia International Airport this morning to pick up my mom, who I had not seen since early January. It’s funny when I tell people at Penn this fact, as the vast majority are shocked beyond belief that I don’t go home for months and months at a time. I’m sure there are people who have it worse than I do, and as much as I miss my mom, friends, and Vancouver as a whole at times, it’s really not that bad.

Anyways, a few days ago when I picked up Ansgar, I was inspired to write about the arrivals hall of the airport, which I believed to be the perfect place to see all of human emotion in its glory. I saw it to be a beautiful portrait of languages, joy, anguish, and passion, in which you could either find and create your own stories or bask in the tales of strangers.

So you could imagine my surprise when I showed up to the exact same terminal to this:

Vast emptiness...

Nothing. Not one passenger coming off their plane, not one airport staff member, not one person. Nothing. Not a movement, not a sound. It was incredibly creepy.

Of course, I had gone to the wrong terminal. I had forgotten that since passengers entering the US through Canada go through customs before boarding the plane in Canada, apparently these flights are not really considered “international arrivals” anymore. I guess by that logic Canada isn’t really a “separate country” anymore. Oh, you crazy Americans with your subtle hints of eventual annexation!

In the end, I did meet up with my mom, but not before seeing some other amusing things. How would you like to be carted like a piece of cargo around the airport on a “luxury” dolly like this?

The most impersonal wheelchair, ever.

On the cab ride back, I also realized that Philadelphia really fails to impress any of its visitors right off the bat with its landscape…

Welcome to... an industrial wasteland. Here's your complementary cancer.

Last night my friends and I decided to go do something we all hadn’t done in awhile… bowling! Instead of taking the easy route and going to Strikes, the on-campus alley, we drove out to a place called North Bowl that Anthony had found during work (yes, he has a job in which the workday consists of drinking and bowling).

So first things first, I suck at bowling. A few of us were completely embarrassed by this tiny little girl bowling with her mom, who could barely even lift the ball, yet was getting scores pretty comparable to ours. Granted, she was using bumpers at the side of the lanes, but even with the help of those, I don’t think I would have done much better.

Speaking of parents, watching this little tiny girl bowling with her mom was, I admit, pretty heart-warming. The two were so happy to be out with each other, and the girl would scream and jump with joy every time she knocked down a pin. This image was made that much better, given that on the other side of us, there were these young boys literally throwing the bowling balls up in the air at each other and playing catch, with (presumably) the father watching on. What a nice contrast of parenting styles.

Now that the self-evaluation of my bowling skills is out of the way, the alley (and the neighborhood as a whole) was very fun. There were two floors: the first with 12 or so bowling lanes and the second with a big lounge filled with couches and various games. Drinks and greasy food (including tater-tots… so many tater-tots) were reasonably priced, the small screens played interactive cartoons while you played the game, the bigger screens at the end of the lanes played the Phillies game, and there were little knick-knacks hidden around the building like a retro candy machine with various treats made from back in the day.

All in all, it was a fantastic time filled with drinks, cherry-coke marinated pulled beef sandwiches, tater-tots, the occasional strike, and the much more numerous gutterballs. I would definitely go back, to check out the various happy hour specials they have throughout the week. If you’re a Penn student and looking for something different to do, I suggest leaving campus, strapping on those bowling shoes, and experiencing this establishment.

Saturday, as I picked up my friend from Germany who is in Philly for the next month to work on his English, I realized that the airport is a fascinating location for people-watching.

First, it’s a location, under normal circumstances, guaranteed to offer a wide mixture of people from all walks of life. If you want to go and see a perfect example of members from all the different races coming together for one unified goal (making their flight on time), and to have your aural senses overwhelmed by a Babel-like orchestra, the airport is your safest bet.

Second, nowhere else can you see human emotions in its rawest forms laid out for all to see. Strolling through the different terminals, it’s not difficult to see people around you taking off their masks and succumbing to their deepest emotions. Some show it in big displays, while others only give unconscious, subtle hints that only some can observe. In the departures terminal, you can see a lot of big displays of sadness. Parents seeing their kids off (dealing with mixed feelings of gloom and pride in their child), and significant others parting ways at least for a little while, can be seen hugging and sometimes crying, trying to overcome the hurdle of separation. Some of the other travelers may show a quiet melancholy about the end of their trip, and about what might await them back home. Fear and anxiousness are also common; some fear the immediate flight ahead, while others are anxious about the idea of their entire voyage. Anger, frustration, and disbelief can be easily observed as well, as some travelers remember, once again, why they hate flying. Among the sadness, anger, and quiet melancholy, you can also see here and there subtle hints of uncontrollable excitement and happiness, especially among those kids, trying to subdue their yearning for a brand new experience in front of his or her sad parents.

The arrivals terminal, on the other hand, holds the other spectrum. Joy and elation – in the form of balloons, signs, tears, laughter, and bear hugs – are abound as families, couples, and friends come together once again. For those who see others reunite, anticipation and impatience becomes overwhelming, slowing the time beyond limits of toleration, as necks stretch to gain a better look down the arrivals hall for those long-awaited familiar faces. Relief seems to be most prevalent among those, who just a few hours ago, were scared, anxious, angry, and frustrated, overjoyed that their ordeal has finally come to an end, at least until their next flight. Of course, that is not to say irritation has been completely absent, as some, inspecting the flight information screen, realize the flight, and the people, for which they were waiting has been delayed yet again. But perhaps the most telling and touching of all observations is not among the reunions between families and lovers, and the frustration among those who need to wait a little longer for them. The subtle sadness and disappointment that can be seen in the eyes of some solo travelers, realizing that there is no one here at this arrivals hall to welcome them, is perhaps the more interesting story to be explored.

The Declaration of Independence welcomes you to Philadelphia (International Arrivals Hall)

And if people-watching isn’t your thing, waiting at the arrivals hall waiting for your party is a great chance to meet others, looking for anything to pass the time until its time to leave. I had a great conversation with a woman who was waiting to welcome her childhood nanny, standing there with a broken foot and all. When I suggested that she take a seat to avoid any discomfort, I found out she had stopped sitting because one of the airport workers had started to creepily hit on her. She was an interesting person – she had recently married, both her and her husband were chefs in Philadelphia, and she was writing her first book. Our conversation went from the new iPhone (which she couldn’t wait to get because she was a tech-junkie), to her world travels (Italy was her favorite), to the tricks of traveling (best days to travel are Tuesdays). In fact, she had traveled so much, she knew by heart all the different airport codes, and could predict when both her and my people would walk through the arrivals gate by looking at the airport code tags of the other passengers. In the end, we never caught each others’ names, but what are names without stories?

Gotta watch what I say on this one… I’m going to have all the Philly hipsters judging my content. Does blogging about this make me automatically and inherently “uncool?” I don’t know, whatever.

After months of hearing people rave about “Making Time” in Philly, I finally had the chance to check it out last night, and it lived up to its hype. First, a little history: Making Time was started a few years ago by Dave Pianka, a local promoter, and has in the past attracted live acts like The Strokes, Bloc Party, and LCD Soundsystem. From what I know, it usually takes place at Pure or Transit on a monthly basis, and provides an outlet for kids craving some multi-story, body-moving goodness.

The night started out at a house-warming potluck party at my friend’s house, who had just moved to Northern Liberties. I had never really explored this area of town before, and was incredibly impressed with the neighborhood, so I guess you can expect a future post with photos exclusively about it sometime soon. The party was a great time, and I got to catch up with quite a few people I hadn’t seen in a very long while. They had recently started a new project, JapAttack!, and you should definitely check out their tracks through MySpace, their blog, Youtube, or Hype. Did I mention this post is also a crash course on social networking lingo?

A little after 11, with our bellies full of guacamole, mac and cheese, pita bread, and whiskey, we started heading over to Transit, which was only a few blocks away. Unfortunately we had missed the open bar with free PBR and Sparks, but really, at this point, none of us needed that. We walked in probably half way through the set of the live act of the night, a UK band called Friendly Fires.

FriendlyFires

Once the band stopped playing, people really went nuts. Not a single static body in the crowd… but then again, what else can you expect in a club?

In short, Making Time did not disappoint by any means.

Part1 : Yesterday after a long day of work, a few of us took part in happy hour, which, for us, lasted about 7 hours. Why? Well, it was a Wednesday, and Wednesdays mean Center City Sips.

Center City Sips is one of the greatest institutions of summers in Philadelphia. Every Wednesday from June 4-August 27, approximately 70 bars and restaurants – ranging from dingy dive drinking holes to fancy-schmancy eateries – around the city open their doors for a 5-7 happy hour. Prices vary incredibly slightly from bar to bar, within the “incredibly cheap” spectrum. Usually, at any participating location, you can get a beer for $2, cocktails for $3-4, and appetizers for less than $5. Long story short, every Wednesday in Philadelphia presents a chance for every alcoholic in the city to come out and play.

And come out and play they did. Most of the bars and clubs we saw were standing room only, with servers fighting their way through crowds and miraculously balancing the contents of their plates and glasses. You could see and feel the relief of everyone standing around you, mingling with their friends, family, and co-workers, as all their job-related worries and stresses were released during the euphoric happy hour.

It’s interesting, for me at least, to go to certain bars, people-watch, and realize certain bars definitely do draw very specific crowds. Here are some general observations for the average male that was at this one bar we went to:

Dress: Suit or rolled up sleeves with tie

Accessories: Leather briefcase with umbrella

Physical appearance: Variety of heights, but some common characteristics – no neck, shoulders start at ear (past athlete), perfectly-gelled hair

Behavior: Found in a group of 2-3 other similar males, all shamelessly hitting on any female that walked by

Conclusion: Douche

All in all, a good time though.

_______________________________________________

Part 2: After the official Center City Sips happy hour ended, we made our way back to campus and checked out the newest addition to the University City dining community: Distrito. This new restaurant, located at the Hub on 40th and Chestnut, and owned by Jose Garces (who also owns Amada), opened for business on Monday. We were welcomed by a group of friendly greeters, standing in front of a bookshelf of Jarritos, a Mexican soft drink. After meeting the bartenders serving more than 70 types of tequila, checking out the menu of very reasonably priced authentic Mexican dishes (nothing is over $20), and eating some of the most delicious nachos I have ever had, I checked out the rest of this cool two-level restaurant.

Although we only stuck around for one appetizer and a drink each, I highly recommend Distrito for anyone looking for a great dining experience in a very unique setting. And while it doesn’t have any official happy hours yet, once they do, I think it could become a very popular place among students looking for alternatives to establishments like Pod.

Scorpions at the first floor bar

On the way out, we were treated to another surprise. The greeters showed us a little secret: the bookshelf of Jarritos was actually a door that led to a comfortably furnished private karaoke room. While I carry with me an inexplicable hatred towards karaoke (probably one of the lowest forms of entertainment, in my mind), if you’re into that sort of thing and have some cash to blow away, I guess this is right up your alley.