July 31-August 6, 2003

pretzel logic

You Gotta Move

by Howard Altman

Ever really take a good look at Philadelphia? Sit down with a map and check it out. The city looks very much like a centurion wearing a helmet.

The eyes are where Lincoln Drive crosses the Schuylkill.

City Line Avenue is the bridge of the nose. The juncture of Market and Cobbs Creek Parkway is the nostrils.

Mt. Moriah Cemetery, along Cobbs Creek in Southwest, is the mouth. The Navy Yard is the jaw guard.

The Schuylkill north to the Montco line is the front of the visor, which contains Roxborough, Manayunk and the Northwest.

And the great Northeast is the plume.

Hail Caesar, yo.

Here at City Paper World Headquarters in swanky downtown Old City, we've been looking at Philadelphia a lot over the past few weeks.

Hard as it is to believe, we are crossing over into August, which means a hot spate of dog days followed by the multilayered misery of mayoral mishegoss and yes, for many of you, moving.

Moving in.

Moving out.

Packing. Unpacking. And, if you are like me when I was single and dwelling in a cave of an unheated, illegal basement in the heart of a tony Boston suburb during a brutal New England winter, having friends pitilessly trash the unbundled detritus of your life.

Sometime this week, you could very well be moving.

Or your child.

Or your ex.

Somewhere, in this city, into an apartment. Perhaps a South Philly rowhome. Maybe into a converted West Philly manse.

For the past several weeks, Parliament-puffing Brian Hickey, the newest member of the clan, has been poring over the centurion with editors and artists, reporters and interns, searching for the best places to rent, the most expensive and the cheapest. And for information to help renters know their rights and the pitfalls.

Moving.

Perhaps only death instills more fear.

Back in college, moving was rather simple. Just dumped the contents of my small dump into a shopping cart as I headed for the next dump.

Right after graduation, it was even simpler. My next move -- from my home on Lawn Guyland to a friend's apartment in Boston -- was accomplished simply with a suitcase and a knock on the door.

I proceeded to call their unused fireplace my new home. They were gracious for months, as they put up with me and I put up with listening to their moaning girlfriends and endured a savage fight over a yam.

A year or so later, I was paying my own rent, sharing an apartment with a buddy we called Cedric the Blacksmith, on account of him looking like that character in a Three Stooges short.

This new place, in the Boston neighborhood of West Roxboro, was, of course, a dump and needed amenities. Cedric was ready when my parents gave us some furniture they no longer wanted. His brother had a dump truck, which we drove down to the Guyland and loaded up like Jethro and Jed.

Once, I moved out of Boston over a woman, but we won't go into that, other than to say I wound up in the basement of the Living Love Center in Berkeley, staring up at glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling.

From there it was onto Portland, Ore., and moving consisted of my business partner and I standing along Route 5 with thumbs out, being eaten by mosquitoes and forced to march through the yuck that is Yuba City.

After spending a night in a Denny's nursing a bowl of soup and saltines with ketchup, it was back on the road. Digging deep to purchase a container of garlic powder, we doused ourselves with what we hoped was a bug-repelling blast of the spice, and were eventually picked up by a man in a pickup. Many hours later, we arrived in Portland famished and scarfed our first grub in a cheap noodle house called the Hung Lo.

Years later, I was rescued from my unheated basement by my now wife, who took me first to her rented home and then, a few years later, to a glorious apartment overlooking Boston Harbor with a roof deck and a magnificent view.

I moved to Philadelphia in 1991, into West Philly and the kindness of my in-laws, who were already housing my wife and our first.

Months later, we got a crib of our own, driving in the night to a place called Grays Ferry, about which I knew not a bit.

The three-bedroom rowhouse seemed quite adequate and the price, about $500 per month, was just about right.

The next day, trying to find the place, I was sobered as I drove past boarded up houses and dealers on the corners.

We stayed nine years for a vast number of reasons. Had two more kids, lots of friends and then, when the gunfire was too much, we moved out.

Mambo Movers were quite amazed when they arrived.

My wife packed the place up neatly, into dozens of plastic boxes. The 101st Airborne could have done well to take notes.

From there, it was north to Mt. Airy, which I am ecstatic to now call my home.

I hope I never move again.

But I know many of you will.

So take a good look at Philly, the centurion.

Read this issue and then pick a spot.