Highway Rest Stop

http://twitxr.com/fumordotnet/updates/208588

On our way back from the Long Beach Island, New Jersey trip mentioned in the previous Twitter Feat, Staircase, we stopped at the service plaza pictured above. The area in question is the Frank S. Farley Service Plaza along the Atlantic City Expressway, a multi-lane superhighway connecting Philadelphia’s New Jersey suburbs with the Atlantic City area and all points in between. Home to the gift shop seen above, it also plays host to a number of eateries, traveler’s information kiosks, and restrooms. It is one of the very few highway rest areas that I’ve been to which is accessible from both directions of the road it services. I decided to honor Twitter Feat #4 here because my current car-lacking, pedestrian lifestyle in center city Philadelphia doesn’t exactly bring me into contact with many highway rest areas.

Staircase/stairwell

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The spiraled set of yellow metal seen before you is a small sampling of the 217 stairs that lead to the top of “Old Barney.” This term does not refer to the bleached-blonde Mr. Gumble on early episodes of “The Simpsons,” but rather to the Barnegat Lighthouse in Barnegat Light, one of several resort communities on New Jersey’s Long Beach Island along the Atlantic Ocean. The fourth-tallest lighthouse in the United States (and the tallest in New Jersey), it was one of a number of stops made on the island that day by my mom, dad, sister Twin #2, and I. We weren’t on an official vacation or anything, but rather simply on a day trip. This is a good thing, as nightly rates on the island probably require one to be in an income bracket at or above the Larry King level.

While my parents elected to remain at sea level, Twin #2 and I decided to climb it (“decided” meaning that I talked her into it via paying for her $1 admission). Moments later we were…somewhere in the middle, catching our breaths and enjoying our legs’ new rubber feeling. Upon hitting the top, we enjoyed the view until we were satisfied that $2 worth of time had been well spent.

Sports Stadium

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The sports stadium depicted here is Citizens Bank Park, named after the bank chain of the same name (Bank of America). Opened in 2004 (which also equals the average ticket price), the stadium is home to Major League Baseball’s Philadelphia Phillies and the occasional concert. Prior to 2004, both the Phillies and the NFL’s Philadelphia Eagles shared space at Veterans Stadium, which was imploded shortly before Citizens Bank Park’s grand opening. The “Bank”, or the “Park,” as it is known to locals whose Philadelphia dialect prevents them from correctly/intelligently speaking/spelling the word “Citizens,” is part of the “South Philadelphia Sports Complex,” which also consists of Lincoln Financial Field (current home of the aforementioned Eagles), the Wachovia Center (the indoor home of hockey’s Philadelphia Flyers and basketball’s Philadelphia 76ers), and multiple parking lots (home to $20+ parking rates). It was on this very artificial grass surface that the rain-delayed 2008 World Series was won by, of course, every for-profit company that had a stake in the stadium’s operations at the time. I think the Phillies team itself also won something that year.

Even though I am the only testosterone-filled individual who can proudly say that he is not a sports fan (my anatomy is all the proof of my maleness that I need; my insecure fellow fellows apparently need more than that), I still attend the occasional baseball game. Primarily because of the hot dogs. The Hatfield company makes rather tasty (and rather pricy) beef franks at the ballpark each game and I have enjoyed their taste ever since I was young and attended games with my dad at the Vet. Speaking of my paternal figure, he and my mother accompanied me to the game; my mom had actually secured the tickets through her place of employment, which has seats in the 100 level. In other words, our hardened plastic chairs were four rows behind the visitor’s dugout and were even graciously warmed up for us by a few fans who had moved down several rows when they figured we weren’t showing up.

The image above is looking past third base toward left-center field. The neon bell seen in the background is a unique feature to the stadium; it is swung back and forth each time the home team hits a home run, thus giving it plenty of opportunity to rust out from non-use. Directly below the “Citizens Bank Park” sign is a section of the stadium known as “Ashburn Alley,” a line of restaurants and other eateries that officials claim was named after former Phillie (and current corpse) Richie Ashburn but whose emphasis on food leads me to believe that it is instead honoring famed cow Kirstie Alley.

Supermarket

http://twitxr.com/fumordotnet/updates/194948

I spent a recent Saturday in the suburbs visiting my parents and younger twin sisters. Often, I partake in this ritual on Sundays, but the following day saw my unavailability due to a trip to New York City with my friend RedHot (which was far more awesome than any day in suburban Philadelphia ever has been).

This particular visit featured a trip to the local supermarket. Despite my complaints about the area, I nevertheless like to do my grocery shopping in the suburbs, as all of the prices are far cheaper than they are on the opposite side of the city border. Also, I tend to buy several weeks’ worth of supplies at once, which is not something my automobile-lacking ass is prepared to deal with in the city…especially with a gaggle of bums in between my apartment and the closest supermarket. My dad usually drives me to the market and then home to my apartment; often, he purchases his own order of groceries while there.

The particular scene above depicts the endcap in between Aisles 7 and 8 in the Acme (a Mid-Atlantic subsidiary chain of Albertson’s) supermarket in Folsom, Pennsylvania. Locally dubbed the “Ridley Acme,” (Folsom is a town in Ridley Township) it is fairly new and rather spacious. Its opening over 10 years ago saw the closing of two smaller Acme units in neighboring towns Holmes and Woodlyn, the latter of which saw the space turn into a fitness center.

I find that humorous.

Port-o-Potty

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This lovely image was taken inside one of about 10 or so Port-o-Potty units on the Festival Pier at Penn’s landing, where a concert that I described in my previous Twitter Feat summary, Fumor is in Line, was taking place.

An attendee of many outdoor events in my life that took place far outside the reaches of good plumbing, I have been inside a lot of Port-o-Pottys, Johnny-on-the-Spots, and whatever the hell else they like to be known as in my life history. Needless to say, they aren’t the most pristine of places. Often, the part of your mind that is not devoted to making sure that no molecule of your person comes into contact with anything other than the unit’s door handle is questioning when exactly the last time said unit was cleaned. You wonder if it is indeed possible that the number of years since the unit’s last sanitation effort exceeds the number of years such units have been in existence.

However, to this particular unit’s credit, it was actually as immaculate as it can get. Sure, the image above will display the normal collection of bathroom tissue soaked in God-knows-what that typically lines the interior of the hole, but the aroma usually associated with such was absent. Instead, it was replaced with a powerful air freshener that was actually quite pleasant. I found myself preferring this Port-o-Potty to a number of actual public restrooms I have been in during my travels. Since I live in the greater Philadelphia area, where places like New York City and New Jersey are readily accessible, this shouldn’t come as any real shock.

Funny aside: As we waited in line, Squall advised me to make sure I had performed any and all bodily functions I needed to, as he claimed “You don’t want to be using a concert Port-o-Potty.”

He himself then managed to use the facilities at least three times. I used them once and only once. I guess it’s because I failed to imbibe the six Rum and Coke cocktails (which came out, price-wise, to almost exactly what he paid for the ticket) he did.

In Line

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While it appears to be a chaotic crowd, the collection of people depicted in the above image nevertheless form a line.

A LONG-ASS line, for that matter. Several PHILADELPHIA CITY BLOCKS in length. And when you consider that one such city block is roughly equal to 1/10 mile, that’s pretty damn impressive.

So, what was the line for? Since it is located in Philadelphia, it has to be for either something food- or sports-related, doesn’t it?

Nope. Try a concert.

Specifically, the concert was five bands performing at the Festival Pier on Penn’s Landing, a waterfront walkway that hugs the Philadelphia side of the Delaware River within the city’s “center city” district. South of Penn’s Landing lie a series of shopping centers and shipyards in various stages of operation, whilst north of the property are a gaggle of nightspots and ghetto neighborhoods. The line was on the sidewalk portion of Columbus Boulevard (also called Delaware Avenue), which provides access to the waterfront amenities and also runs parallel to Interstate 95.

The concert’s main (meaning last) headliner was Fall Out Boy; he/they were preceded by a few other musical acts, such as Metrostation, another band that was still shitting over the fact that they performed a song in the 2006 flick “Snakes on a Plane,” and two other bands whose rates of success are at a point where my memory is incapable of remembering who the hell they are. My friend Squall had wanted to see the concert ever since he heard about its tour stop in Philadelphia; “Star Trek”-levels of excitement were being expressed by him. Seeing as how my Friday night would be otherwise spent not updating fumor.net, I decided to accompany him (accomplishing the very same Friday night activity in the process!).

It was certainly surreal to stand in this formation, for a few reasons:

1. It was the LARGEST collection of Caucasians I have EVER seen in the Philadelphia city limits;

2. Squall and I were among the oldest people in attendance by at LEAST 10-15 years. I felt like a dirty old man numerous times that evening, starting right there in that line. At one point, I turned to Squall and remarked, “We are probably the only people here who were not dropped off by our parents.”