I Love You, I Hate You

The people working service jobs in this town are pretty great. The rest of us can be dickheads.

by Duane Swierczynski

The kid turned and spit. It was an excellent shot. The tightly packed bullet of saliva hit the ground and splattered mere inches from my feet. I had just enough time to step over it and wonder if the kid had missed. Or missed on purpose.

We were half a block from Independence Mall, near Fifth and Market. Just 60 seconds earlier, we were showing our friends from Scotland the excavation site of the President's House, and of course, talking about the irony of buried slave quarters deep in the cradle of American freedom.

Such as: the freedom to hock a loogie anywhere you damn please.

Seems like everybody was all about the freedom this past Saturday. Earlier, we encountered people exercising the freedom to practically knock over preschool-age children in an effort to arrive at their destination a few seconds earlier.

Others exercised the freedom to get all pissy when asked for simple directions.

As well as the freedom to give you dirty looks because, oh for shame, you brought two kids into a raging hipster assholeteria.

Phil-a-del-ph-ia Free-dom, shine on me.

But at the same time, you can go wandering around this city playing tourist and meet the warmest people in the world. The parking attendant who jokes around with you, and when he says he remembers you from the last time you parked here a month ago, means it. The counter clerk who has time for a little friendly bullshitting. The soda jerk who remembers the pink straw for a 3-year-old girl, and the waitress who brings extra cherries, because she knows it'll make the kids smile.

My Saturday playing tourist showed me two things: One, the people working service jobs in this town are pretty great.

But two, the rest of us — walking around loose in the city — can sometimes be dickheads.

Now every place has its fill of jerks. But I was surprised by how many DPSIs (dickheads per square inch) we encountered while walking around Old City, Penn's Landing and Rittenhouse Square.

Just a few days before, I was walking around the Lower East Side and East Village in Manhattan and felt a completely different vibe. And even thought I'd been hearing it for a while now, I want to know ... exactly when did Philadelphians become crankier than New Yorkers?

Of course, this is an unfair, and altogether unscientific, sampling. Maybe we just happened to encounter the five or six lone pricks who were polluting the city on that crisp, pre-nor'easter Saturday afternoon.

But still ...

Playing tourist pretty much just confirmed a running theme of these columns as of late: God, I love this city. God, I hate this city.

Maybe I should have taken the advice of reader Frank Kane, who e-mailed:

"I agree with you in that I don't think that all hope has yet been lost to this crime ridden city. True the numbers are staggering, but there is still happiness left to pursue. I would advocate taking in a businessman's special Phillies game. Although, their record right now is enough to incite a crime. There is something to be said about spending a weekday in the ball park. Especially if you catch a home run ball. Even from the losing team."

If anyone needs me, I'll be up in Ashburn Alley.

Advertisements for Ourselves

The Pennsylvania Newspaper Association announced the 2007 Keystone Press Awards this week, and I'm proud to report that CP scooped up a pile. Taking home first place honors this time: Mike Regan for news photo, Doron Taussig for ongoing coverage, David Barry for investigative reporting, Jeff Pearlman for sports story and Ashlea Halpern for business story. (Yes, we did a double-take on that one, too. But it was for her excellent "Merchants of Death" feature, and yes, that counts as a business story.)

Second place honors were nabbed by Brian Hickey — for both news feature and distinguished writing — as well as Joe Pirro for investigative reporting and yours truly for column writing.

Hickey will be traveling to lovely downtown Harrisburg in a month to represent the paper. We hope he makes it out of the bar in time to accept the honors. (Don't look at me like that, Hickey. You know what I'm talking about.)

(duane@citypaper.net)