The Believer Deluxe Retro ClassyPak includes: the 2004 Visual Issue (Mike Mills, Guy Maddin, Raymond Pettibon, a DVD); the 2006 Music Issue (Calexico, the National, Paul Collins, Rick Moody, a CD); and the 2006 Visual Issue (Matthew Barney, Shelley Jackson, a removable stack of paintings by Kehinde Wiley affixed to the cover). All this for - - - - |
- - - - January 3, 2001 Dear Tracy: It has happened. Without much hoo-hah, without a going-away-party in Chicago, with little warning at all, really, Regina and I have moved to Philadelphia. Since we arrived, two days before Thanksgiving, there have occurred, in order: a train wreck three blocks from our house that resulted in the spillage of 11,000 gallons of sulfuric acid, an explosion at the gas works, and a mass murder in a West Philly crack house. At last, I have found the city of my dreams. Leaving Chicago was really not that difficult. It isn't the city that you and I knew 12 years ago. When I moved to Chicago, Maxwell Street was still chugging along, there were still a lot of Latinos in Wicker Park, and you could get a studio apartment, easily, for $300. Incredibly, Mayor Daley was not yet Mayor Daley, and the Smashing Pumpkins were mercifully unfamous. The Bulls were still three years away from their first title. The city was slightly depressed and somewhat seedy, and, for a person of imagination of modest means, a pretty great place to live. Kind of like Philadelphia is now. Typically, when Regina and I tell people here that we chose to live in Philly, not because of work or family obligation, but because we actually like it, we get one of two reactions. The first is an acknowledgment that, for all its faults, Philly is a good alternative to New York City, in that it is possible to pay the rent here and still afford to go out to dinner once in a while. The other, more common reaction, generally comes from life-long Philadelphians, like the guy last weekend who kindly told me that Sun Ra once moved here because he concluded that Philly is the center of evil in the universe, and he was dedicated to fighting evil. These people say: "Really? Why would you want to live here?" There are a number of reasons. First, it is hilarious. New Year's Day has just passed, and with it my inaugural Mummers parade. How can you not love an event that, as a central attraction, features dancing, banjo-playing plumbers dressed in spangled monkey costumes? Yes, the Mummers are somewhat problematic. One group was made up in what seemed dangerously close to blackface. Another dressed as Native Americans and did a wacky war-whoop dance that would have seemed dated and offensive 40 years ago. But at the same time, black and white people lined the route in equal number, and everyone seemed to be equally drunk. In other good New Year's news, the annual Philly tradition of firing guns into the air at midnight to have subsided this year, according to our police commissioner. At least, he said, no one was killed, though one woman did report hearing a barrage of about 20 shots. Second, Philly has politics. Sure, Chicago has politics, too, more than any ten other cities combined. But what Chicago lacks these days is political drama. Mayor Daley is going to get his way, whether it takes two weeks or two years. The city is under his iron rule. How boring to live in a prosperous city where sidewalk repair and garbage pickup are near guarantees! Here, every single civic function always seems to teeter on the brink of inactivity, to the extent that our mayor is actually considering renting out space in City Hall to fast-food chains so the city can afford to finish renovating the building. Then there is the matter of the mayor himself, John Street, a former hot-dog vendor and longtime party hack who barely won election last year over a Babbitish Republican businessman named Sam Katz. Now, I haven't met too many people here who like Mayor Street. He spent two weeks ignoring a female firefighter named Mary Kohler who was dying of Hepatitis C contracted on the job, and camped in front of the mayor's office to call attention to her plight. Street said something to the extent that if he talked to every Mary in Philadelphia who had a problem, he'd never get any work done. He doesn't exactly have the populist touch. At the same time, he has brokered a pretty good stadium deal and rammed through a new teacher's contract, two standard chestnuts of the urban boardroom. He also, when last week's snowstorm hit, arranged to have more than a thousand city workers go to Veterans stadium and steam-blow away the snow for the Eagles game on Sunday, and he somehow also engineered the emergency delivery of a heated tarp from Pittsburgh. I retain faith and some affection for a man who, in his inaugural address, said that he was going to turn Philly into the next "Silicone Valley." Also, when we first visited here last February, Mayor Street was on the cover of the Daily News sledding on a trashcan lid. He probably won't get re-elected, but I look forward to more photos like that. Our refrigerator will be covered. As I alluded to earlier, there is the matter of sports. I am fortunate to have moved to Philly during a rare moment of athletic success on the part of the local squads. The Sixers, led by a gangster rapping, corn-row haired shooting guard of almost unlimited talent, and an annoying, motorcycle-driving motivational speaker of an owner, have the best record in the NBA. In typical Philly style, the local sports radio guys spend most of their on-air time bashing Toni Kukoc, which reminds me pleasantly of Chicago, but the city is still staring down the likelihood that their team will win the Eastern Conference, and possibly the NBA title. But, of course, the topic of greatest local interest at the moment is the Eagles, of whom even the most fervent skeptics are beginning to admit a Super Bowl trip is possible. I find myself chanting E-A-G-L-E-S, EAGLES, as a matter of course during the day. Regina and I haven't been to a game yet, but we have had the privilege of standing in line at Geno's Steaks behind a bunch of fans who just left one, and watching them devour three cheesesteaks without belching. These are football fans who, during a 1989 game, pelted Santa Claus with snowballs. These are 250-pound men who take off their shirts in 20-degree weather and shake their big green-painted bellies. We were listening to the radio on the day of the Eagles-Titans game, and we heard a local Superfan engage in an audio voodoo ritual on an Eddie George doll. "I take away your power, Eddie George!" he screamed. The Eagles have a brilliant quarterback, Donovan McNabb, who was nonetheless booed by local fans when he was drafted, and a Mormon coach, Andy Reid, who is the size and shape of a zeppelin. I saw footage on the local news of Coach Reid high-fiving fans in line at the Vet for a playoff ticket. There is only one equivalent coach-fan relationship in sports that I can think of: Mike Ditka and the city of Chicago. If I hadn't made it clear already, I think this city is a lot like Chicago in 1985, and as you know, I have always wished to be transported back to that golden age of American urban history, when cities were depressed, scary, weird, and affordable. I love my Titans, but I wish the Eagles could win the Super Bowl, too, just to see what happens here. My prediction: Public drunkenness. I could tell you so many more things about Philly, like the trashcan fires on 9th Street when the Italian Market is in full winter operation, or the guy who hangs whole pheasants in the window of his butcher shop and also grows prize-winning orchids, or the amazing hot turkey sandwich at the Amish diner in the Reading Terminal Market, or the Mutter Museum of medical curiosities, which features on display, among other things, the conjoined livers of Chang and Eng, the Siamese Twins, and a tumor removed from the jaw of Grover Cleveland. Such is a day in the life here. I have barely begun to visit Philly's many neighborhoods, some of which are stricken with poverty as wretched as anywhere in the United States, and are, quite literally, falling down, with as many as 20 old houses crumbling to earth during an average summer week. I realize that I am privileged to enjoy Philly as I do, that for many people, life here is not a quaint urban fantasy, but rather a bitter struggle for survival. Then again, life just about everywhere is a bitter struggle for survival, and since this is my home now, I embrace it, with all its inequality, injustice, and corruption. Like Sun Ra, my Arkestra and I are dedicated to fighting evil. I'll take collapsing neighborhoods any day over gondolas on the Chicago River. That's all for now. How are things in Detroit? Love,
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