A parody of the latest absurdity to strike Philadelphia journalism.
*Frank Lee is not a real person. See editor's note for further explanation.
NORTHWEST PHILLY IS A NERVOUS PART OF TOWN. I live two doors down from an organic grocery co-op, where questionable people go in and out all day for the ostensible purpose of buying healthy food. I know what the place is really about, though, and the whole thing makes me queasy to my core.
See, if those people were really just after quality organics, I think it’s perfectly safe to assume they’d do it the normal way: They’d take a Jacuzzi bath and do their hair with some good product, put on a nice outfit and some jewelry, tweeze their eyebrows, get in their cars and drive to Whole Foods like the rest of us.
But that’s not what they do. No, instead large numbers of them stumble out their front doors, clearly unshowered—I can imagine the body odor that undoubtedly pervades their aging stone rowhomes—and, unashamedly clad in nothing more than off-label jeans and sweatshirts, they congregate inside the co-op, picking up bunches of kale, putting them down again, and blocking the narrow aisles for minutes at a time as they jabber to each other about tedious bullshit that you’ll never see on TMZ Live. Plenty of them don’t even have makeup on.
The message is clear: Not only is this a place where the dowdy, the frumpy, the unappealing to look at, are welcome; it’s a place where, if I’m to be honest, a hot, highly desirable piece of ass like myself is actually made to seem, as unthinkable as this is, like an outsider. And that leaves me feeling very uncomfortable.
I’ve shared my view of this degradation, this rejection of civilization’s accepted aesthetic norms, with some of my fellow hotties. They claim they don’t see it that way. They talk about empathy. They utter platitudes like “eye of the beholder,” spew politically correct buzzwords like “all kinds of beauty,” mouth well-worn cliches like “My god, Frank, that woman is an Iraq War veteran who survived an IED explosion and saved half her platoon—what on earth is the matter with you?” I think they’re blind. I could almost wish I were blind, too, because shit, the people I have to look at every day are ugly.
And I think it’s time we admit what we’re all thinking: We glorious, angelic, sexy beasts—we whose presence here is what makes Philadelphia look as damn fine as it does—would really prefer never to look at anything so unpleasant as our less perfect neighbors.
START TRYING TO DISCUSS THE ISSUE of Philly’s beauty gap with other sizzling-hot sex machines around the city, and you’ll find that everyone has a story to share—whether or not they want to admit it. Take the gorgeous, classy brunette in a leather skirt I saw walking through Rittenhouse Square recently. I’ll call her Alexandra; it may or may not have been her name, but if it wasn’t, it certainly should have been, and I hope she takes that suggestion to heart. Anyway, from my vantage point across the square, I could see how two disgustingly unattractive men were bothering her—an old fat guy in a ratty baseball cap and a repulsive young punk with some sort of creeping rash across his face, probably contagious. Not only were they demanding her attention, they were intermittently blocking her MILF-y radiance from view by others, thus impinging upon the general welfare.
As I hesitated, wondering whether any passersby would back me up if I approached with the intent of shooing the men off, they turned and walked away, finally leaving the hottie in peace. Relieved, I strode confidently up to her. “It’s terrible, isn’t it?” I asked.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Having to share the city with people like that. The obese old geezer. And that dirty leper, or whatever he was.”
She frowned. “I’m sorry—are you referring to my father and my son? My son is 14. He has pimples. And my dad’s a few pounds overweight, but I think he’s earned a comfortable retirement after working hard for decades to support his family.”
“I understand,” I said, sympathy welling up in my voice. “That’s how you have to play it when it comes to family. But we know, don’t we, how it really feels? We know.”
She looked at me with those big round eyes, as rich with vibrant life as the primordial pool from which our genetic forebears sprung, and said, “You’re being really creepy. You’re not trying to hit on me, are you?”
For the record, I wasn’t. I was doing journalism. I was interviewing her, and like any high-quality journalist, I was prepared to keep interviewing her as hard as I could until she yielded some sweet, sweet quotes. Still, I could understand why she would imagine the possibility of a romantic encounter with me. Because I, unlike so many others, am an attractive Philadelphian. And anyone would be lucky to have me devote some attention to them.
* Frank Lee is not a real person. See editor's note for further explanation.
I will forever have the fondest and funniest memories of Sex Dwarf. I’ll be on my death bed smiling of those awesome dancing drunk happy nights. Drake and Thomas, thank you for an outrageous, passionate, unique, strange and memorable run.
First Person Arts Podcast: Proud Mom