As is often the case when I spend time at home my mother suggested that we take a family jaunt to Reading Terminal, an old train station that has been converted into a large indoor market where the Amish of Pennsylvania peddle their wares and the scent of scrapple fills the air. If you don't know what scrapple is I'm not going to be the one to tell you, but it's best if you just eat it and don't ask what goes in it. Anyway, we had agreed to go, as we enjoy shopping for interesting produce and breakfasting at a delicious food stand while observing the impossible beards of the male members of the Amish sect. And a few of females. I must say that while restricting the use of technology developed past the 19th century may be saving their souls it is NOT doing much for their appearances.
So when my mother woke me up this morning alarmingly early (and by this I mean at 8:30. Oh, come on, it's my vacation! I need my sleep!)I by all rights should have been prepared and excited to venture into the world of homemade jams and freshly slaughtered poultry. However, I wasn't. What could possibly have made me less then my best self this morning? I'm so glad you asked! It was the events of the previous evening. In one of those rare amazing moments in time a handful of my friends from high school were in not-Philadelphia at the same time, so we all decided to go out to dinner. The thing is, however, that when Mariel, Elyse, Ben, Michael, Jon and I do go out to dinner, we tend to fall drink heavily, and, because we don't want to become outrageously large and die alone, we don't eat much. That's not really fair, Ben and Michael eat. And once we leave the restaurant we tend to want to go to another dining establishment, one that includes a bar, and keep drinking. This particular evening took us to the downtown hotspot (as hot as anything gets here in not-Philadelphia) Bump, a gay bar/dance hall. As I observed Jon being activily checked out by the entire bar, male and female, and sipped on my vodka tonic, I realized a few things. One, not-Philadelphia needs some better bars. Two, mesh is definitivly not a good look on everyone. Three, it's wonderful to have people who drink as deeply as you do from the haterade bottle so you can dine and talk shit about pop culture icons (Twilight? Seriously? Have you tried to read that thing? It actually made me less intelligent. I got literally halfway through. People like this crap?) And four, I really really didn't need another drink, because even my thoughts were beginning to slur.
When I did finally make it home (thanks Jon!) I slumped in front of my computer for a while, watching Hulu and furiously attempting to hydrate.
So you can see how this morning I wasn't at my best. But my mother and father, bless them, motivated my strugglesome self out of my bed and into my seat at the Down Home Dinner, a delicious brunch place located within the market. As I allowed the eggs and biscuit to enter my system I savored a cap (or four) of coffee I began to be a human being again. Ah, mornings.
Leah Franqui is a fairly interesting person/director/writer/reader/eater/drinker. She likes ugly dogs and dislikes her hair in the morning. She's a sucker for environmental causes and plays hardball with deals on chewing gum. She is a struggle.