Is this a blog?

Why yes, yes it is! Is it likely to last long? Probably not.

Woke up this morning, delicate breeze drifting in through the open window and the sounds of cars a few streets over rumbling by, as slow as ships. Easter Sunday. Sunday morning. As a matter of fact, that was the very first song I listened to when consciousness kicked in.

Didn't want to get out of bed yet, and by golly, I didn't have to. My laptop and the book I'm reading were waiting obediently by the side of my bed (wagging their tails).

However, my roommate was anxious that I get out of bed, probably to open the other window. I was on my laptop, and thus able to document the events that followed in case I need to show them to the police someday:

I'm not sure the photographs do justice to the strategic nature and ferocity of the attack. But I guess you get the idea.

Decided to treat myself to Sunday brunch at my favorite restaurant in Chestnut Hill. They have incredible coffee that they serve in a colossal mug, stellar food, and they're pretty cheap too. In general the service has been pretty good, but today it was kinda lacking. The waitresses are usually super-nice to me. I think it's because they're used to older customers and they like having somebody closer to their age to chat with. That, and I think it's pretty obvious to them that I'm treating myself, and they seem to think it's sorta...well...neat. I always bring a book, have a couple cups of coffee, and take my sweet time. Usually I'll treat myself to dessert (always a lemon square. I have a problem with lemon pastries).

After a delicious brunch, I decided to finally bike to Whitemarsh Hall. Not really sure what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn't what I found there. (Now that I'm looking closely at the wikipedia page, I realize that if I'd read it closer before setting out, I might've been forewarned).

I turned left off of an endless four-lane street into a cul-de-sac called "Stotesbury Estates." I don't think I realized immediately that I was in a protected community, but nonetheless I found the yellow "NO OUTLET" sign to be kinda foreboding.

Last time I tried to bike to Whitemarsh, googlemaps told me to take a street that doesn't exist, which I found difficult to do. For a few minutes I was convinced that once again, I wasn't where I was supposed to be. Then I saw this:


WHAT IS IT, you ask. Well, it's a bunch of frickin IONIAN COLUMNS. As I biked up to it, they almost seemed to be RISING OUT OF SOMEBODY'S TOWNHOUSE. It was...eerie.

This was about the time when I started to notice I was basically in a police state. A man in a red midlife-crisis car drove slowly past, staring. A bunch of folks with an excitable dog furrowed their brows at me. Until I snapped the photo, I was alright. It was one of those situations in which it pays to look significantly younger than I actually am, to be wearing a wifebeater t-shirt (yep, I was SHOWIN SOME SHOULDER), to be...white (honest truth), and to always somehow just seem so doggone innocent. But yeah, I pushed it a bit too far. And thus when I saw the sign reading "Residents Only" with a promise to call the cops on trespassers, I decided not to risk it. Even houses were giving me the stink-eye.

In sum, it was a surreal experience, but not in the "abandoned, isolated ruins" way I expected it to be. This was a piece of a distinct and dead past that had somehow been misplaced in the present. A community had blossomed up around Whitemarsh Hall, where presidents and film stars once attended banquets; not just any community, but an uncannily safe pocket of yuppie America.

On a whim, on the bike ride home, I turned down a side street, and found some more stuff:



And some details of that last statue, which is BETWEEN TWO DRIVEWAYS:
That's the last photo I'll post this entry, I swear.

I can't imagine living in one of the houses that the above statue borders, and instructing my guests: "Aaaaaaaaaaand ours'll be the driveway on the right, next to the statue of the family that's covered in lichen, missing a limb here and there, with worn-away faces. Yep, yep, y'can't miss it."

I mean seriously WHAT.

If you stumble upon this blog for some reason, and you'd like to guess or you know with certainty what that statue's all about, please do comment.

Finaaaaaaally got back home, walked in the door and sunk into the couch. The radio was on, and I realized that apparently really resonant, beautiful jazz clarinet solos make me want to smoke cigarettes.

Now I'm listening to Patti Smith's "Horses," there's a cat on my lap, and both of us are falling asleep. Life ain't all that bad.

END OF ADVENTURE.