Admiration—despite the fact that it's not really my style, uh, politically I guess, I dunno, I always just get a little uptight when it comes to Northeast Philly shit, and of course I walk in and stand there in the middle of three cops who are just hanging out, shooting the shit, their view of the world full of constant danger in shambles on the floor of the sandwich shop, as they watch Duke almost blow it on the TV and I stand there at the cash register waiting for the haircut working that register to turn around from his chat with the chef and notice me, please, oh god, notice me, I'm hungry, hungry for my food, get me out of this cop den please oh christ—for the idea of SANDWICH MAKERS, putting together disparate tastes to create something new, complex, holy. If I could do it all over again, I'd make sandwiches for a living. I can't do it all over again, and so here we are, paying too much for something that it just that good.
(That was a shitty picture, the lighting was off, but I'm not a photographer and I'm just snapping pictures as I travel around so what the fuck can I do. Here, for your viewing pleasure, is an alternate picture, something that might have spawned a completely different blog post, had I chosen it, something about ideas of home and distance and pain, something, I dunno, though of course the pin on the map would be the same:
)
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