Silent Ph, as in phthisis

My recent return to Philthadelphia was slated to be an early highlight of summer. It was the culmination of an amazing seven day, three concert run, which started with my second row view of Death Cab and continued through an amazing hail-encrusted Mumford & Sons jamfest.

Ever eager, Samantha and I took the day off work to head up early. Our first stop was Tony Luke's for a cheese steak, a la Adam Richman's recommendation. I forgot the fact that I was sitting in what had the ambiance of a Bikram-inspired tractor trailer parking lot when I took the first bite. Hands down, the best cheese steak to date. The wax lined wrapper created a little au jus puddle that I would've lapped up, puppy style. Ah, Philthy was on it's way to redemption!

Next stop, Philadelphia Museum of Art. Again, beautifully done, Philthy! A lovely water fountain statue spritzing local bathing suit-clad youngsters. Bronze Rocky with his disproportionately long arms outstretched in victory. A well-placed wedding party snapping photos on the front steps. It was here that I began to believe that my first trip through this famed city was truly a fluke. True, I don't get contemporary art. Who decides that a Brillo pad box deserves it's own spotlight? A broken snow shovel suspended from the ceiling? A crayon signature directly written on the wall? Nevertheless, I had hope for Philthy.

Off to the Mann! Our only other experience with The Mann Center for the Performing Arts was a mind-blowing Arcade Fire show that sparked an impromptu two day scramble for tickets to the next Arcade Fire show later the same week...which, in turn, produced pit tickets...which, in turn, resulted in catching a drum stick in the front row...which, in turn, inspired the greatest Christmas gift ever. Therefore, The Mann Center is solely responsible for a profound amount of awesomeness.

This time, not so much. We arrived early to grab food, beverages, and whatnot. Borrowing from previous experience, we parked along the street just outside the venue. As we packed our belongings into the trunk, a woman began shouting in my general direction from the adjacent street corner.

"Who playin' tonight?!"
"Um, Bright Eyes?"
"Who!?"
"Bright Eyes!"
"Oh. Is that all?!"
"Um, there is an opener, but I don't know who!"

And then she turned away to chat with the very large gentleman beside her. Maybe I've lived near the Murder Capital of the World too long, but for a good long while I thought, oh my goodness...they're going to steal my car while we're at the concert. This neighborhood was significantly less appealing than the area surrounding the art museum. I posed the question to Sam, but she seemed less convinced. We headed out, and as my car became smaller in the distance, I resolved I would not worry. After all, they could have my car...all I really cared about was my iPod in the storage compartment. Of course it was safe there. No burglar would think to look in the storage compartment for valuables. Nah.

As our evening progressed, two themes emerged.

One, Philthadelphia was no more. We took our seats, mid-section, stage right. They were decent seats, so I was pretty stoked. As the show began, Samantha and I started to rise from our chairs in pure, unbridled, child-like excitement....only to be stifled by the abject lameness surrounding us. Poor Sam! She counted the days to this show as if it were Christmas Day itself, and now, bound by chains of lameocity, she was confined to her seat for the entirety of the show. Never before have I experienced a crowd so unresponsive to the entertainers. Everyone just sat there. No singing along, no dancing. Just polite clapping after each song, followed by nothing. Sing monkey, sing! The band sounded amazing, don't get me wrong. Conor belted out the entirety of the new album with his signature heart-wrenching delivery. The only explanation I could give for the distracting behaviour of my fellow concert-goers was that they didn't know the new album. Still, lame. It's been out for a few months now. Get with the program, people. In the name of you, text-message-and/or-sit-unresponsive-through-the-entire-bright-eyes-concert-goer, I rename your city PhLAMEadelphia. (It may be a stretch, but I'm going for it.)

The second theme of the night was less music related. As in, not related whatsoever. Over and over I saw really ordinary looking girls with amazing looking dudes. What is up with that?! I'm ordinary, where's my supermodel? In fact, look up 'average' in Webster's and you'll find my picture. It's true, I haven't felt myself lately. I've completely lost my mojo, in fact. If ever you find yourself repeatedly rejected by computer geeks, you know you're not at the top of your game.

So, staying true to my neurosis, I blamed my hair. I had been letting it grow longer in order to pull it into a pony tail while training for my races this summer. But clearly it was time to make a choice--the hair or my mojo.

You know you have a bad haircut when people simply say, "Oh, you got your haircut". Period. Just a statement of fact. I joke, in an attempt to make me feel less retarded. "Yes, all of them."

So much for my mojo.

I'm neurotic today because...
...I've converted my entire wardrobe to brown to match my brown Kangol...the only hat that I can wear without people mistaking me for a boy.