(photo courtesy of Finding Philly)
Dear Mama Bear,
I first meet you on a Sunday night sitting on the stoop with d drinking whiskey and Lagers when you came out in your Abercrombie and Fitch men's pajama pants and Banana Republic tanktop to throw away your perfectly packaged garbage. I hollered "Ay Bay Bay" and you laughed and went back inside only to stick your head back out and ask about the recyclables. So you brought out just one too many cardboard boxes and we made fun of you and like the fire hearted banshee that you is, you came over to talk shit on us. This is when I truly new you were someone I wanted in my life.
Screaming at the top of your lungs how fucked up it was that we were getting drunk at 10:00 pm on a Sunday night, you came over to a pair of stunned dudes who instantly knew this was gonna be the best part of the night. The conversation turned to playful jokes about my age, how old I thought you were, and how much we agreed on Dave Mathews Band is so underrated in the streets right now. I never found out your name that night or you told me and I was drunk and didn't remember to remember it since I was so stunned by your awesomeness. After repeatedly turning down swigs of whisky from a plastic water bottle,and not wanting a can of beer "since you didn't trust your self to only have just one" you slipped inside your house for an early evening. The unprecedented mind fuck was well received by the two of us and it didn't help that we forgot your name so we created your nickname, Mama Bear.
Ever since that night we secretly glance over at your row home just to see if your light is on. One time we even bought schnapps (on some other shit I hate schnapps, like if it's below 40 proof fuck it) cause we thought we would run into you. Then it happened again. You hurried out of your house into a cab to run off to old city to hang with your yuppie suburbanite friends. It was after that mega downpour that I got caught in riding my bike to get a case of Natty Bohs from Stones and I was sitting outside with a case of beer waiting to go upstairs. You were on the phone, said hello and blew off my calls of coming to the Walnut Room.
Then out of the blue last night it happened again. We were sitting there drinking leftover cans of Colt and warm Seagram's when we saw you slinking up the street ever so slightly drifting to the right. You had on a new light blue polo vest on with a white collared shirt underneath matched with a pair of off white Benton heel high cut pants that when you turned around really displayed that you had no ass at all. I was feeling it on so many levels. You were drunk, I was getting drunk, and we all were having a good time. You blurted out that you were 33 and tired of all this bullshit and I never felt more connected to you. The majority of the time we spent talking about the most yuppy shit in the world, people from Jersey parking on our block when we pay for a parking permit. It was so enjoyable to watch you run around screaming at the top of your lungs for some one to come down and move their car that was parked illegally and how you were going to call PPA on them.
It was at this moment I wanted to invite you into my world. I wanted to take you to an electro house night where we would be the only people standing around in pastel colors after getting off my sailboat, drink PBR tall boys and do shoots of rail whiskey while the whole time complaining that we can't get pints of Piels, smoke cig after cig after cig and talk shit on people by generally looking fabulous in a sea of Philly bullshitters. I wanted to wake up in the morning next to you after a night of mayhem and take you to Café Lutecia and sit outside while the spider waitress serves us ice teas and we talk shit on all the yuppies with last year's Lacoste colors on. I wanted you to sit there and even in your hung over state look at me in contempt when I make you pay for your half of the check even though it's really cheap for a big ass sandwich.
Then when it's all over I want you to kick my ass out while you go do you and have to get ready to be a bridesmaid again at some shit wedding in Doylestown that you can't invite me to since the last timeyou did I got drunk and pushed some one into a pool and ruined his $400 black jack phone.
P.S. To the waitress at Café Lutecia, it sucks you broke your foot…But at least you broke your foot in France. Shit I ran my bike into a grate at 20th and Green Street the other day and fucked my shoulder up, and then I found 20 bucks...
2301 Lombard Street