PMSimon.com

...you go away for a few days and the place looks like a mess.

So far, I've been in three states and five locations in two days. That's my excuse. Tomorrow, back to normal.

In the meantime, how 'bout them Iggles?

Finally.

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Here's a handy tip when you're using a health club or gym- do now, when others are watching the TVs overhead, walk up, turn the channel, crank the volume, and blithely start your workout.

I was watching and working out this morning at the hotel gym, and a middle-aged guy with a latte in hand walks up to the set, changes the channel to some talking-head news show, gets on the treadmill, and starts jogging, with an occasional sip. I let it go at first, but it really annoyed me, so on the way out I said "next time when you want to change the channel and other people are watching, ASK." He muttered some excuse, but the words "I'm sorry" never crossed his lips. I'll bet they never do.

You can tell a lot about a person by the way they conduct their workout. If they change that channel, or use a machine without wiping off the sweat afterwards, or monopolize a particular machine beyond a reasonable time frame, you know they're self-centered and rude in regular life. This guy fit that category perfectly. I wonder if anyone loves him besides Jesus. And himself.

I doubt it.

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If you ever get a chance to celebrate your relationship with your spouse by returning to the scene of your engagement and having a romantic dinner together, do it.

Over 13 years ago, Fran and I were at Logan Circle in Philadelphia when I launched into an unrehearsed, heartfelt but incoherent speech about love and whatever and blah blah will you marry me? And I pulled a ring out of my pocket and handed it to her.

She said yes.

Actually, she said "y-y-y-HA HA HA HA HAyes! Yes! YES!!! A HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!" But it's essentially the same thing.

This evening, almost 13 years since we got married, we sat across the street from the scene of the crime, dinner and drinks and gazing into each other's eyes and making more incoherent speeches. And it was another reminder that, 13 years ago, I got at least one life decision right.

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I'm in Philadelphia to cover the National Association of Broadcasters Radio Show convention for All Access, and there are several other gatherings here, too. My hotel, not one of the official NAB convention hotels, is booked solid with a number of other confabs, and they're all about the white guys in Men's Wearhouse suits looking uncomfortable.

Naturally, this has been very entertaining to me. I'm tempted to join the conversation at the hotel bar. "Yep," I'd say, "I didn't REALLY become a success in this game until I took a course- you ever hear of Tony Robbins?- and when I was walking on those hot coals, I thought, yeah, NOW I know the right way to approach farm equipment sales. NOW I can truly communicate the value of a John Deere to my clients. Say, you know, we sell a lot of tractors to people like you. Have you ever considered the advantages of owning your own John Deere?" I'd like to see how long I could keep them listening. I bet I can confuse them enough to stick around for hours, especially if they think I'm buying.

But the radio stuff starts tomorrow. Read about it at allaccess.com in the Net News and Talk Topics sections. And come back here for various and sundry ramblings about my odyssey.

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Conventions kinda freak me out. I always feel awkward, shy, uncomfortable, the geek sitting all the way in the back of the classroom, on the side, trying to dissolve into the wallpaper so nobody will notice me. I never know if people will remember me or know who I am, or how they'll react when they do. So far at this convention, I've been recognized by people I wasn't sure would remember me, and I've gotten blank stares from people I've met dozens of times. It's about as uncomfortable as social situations get.

Not that this is rational. I'm here to write and to represent my (other) website, and I shouldn't care whether anyone is friendly or cold or whatever they are. And if I think about it long enough, I get over it. Besides, enough people know me or know of me so that I really should be in my glory, walking around like I own the place.

That's the key to life, I think. If you act like you're a raging success, bigger than anyone else, a God among men- in other words, a flaming asshole- that's what people will think of you. (That you're a raging success, not an asshole. OK, an asshole too. They're not mutually exclusive)

The other element that makes things difficult at conventions is the fact that I can't remember names. I can remember the name of the San Diego Padres' first manager and the premise and cast of the 1960's one-season sitcom "Hank" and the store where I bought "Sgt. Pepper" the day it came out. I can't remember names. This is why people wear name tags, but I really feel stupid doing the name-tag peek, walking arould with eyes fixed at navel level reading tags to scope out who's who. And God forbid I have to introduce one person to another. Fear has a new name, and it's "Third Party Introduction." I'm not good at that.

So it's a relief when, at the end of the day, I could head back to the hotel, get Fran, and go off to that good little Italian place next to Mitchell and Ness on Walnut Street for some serious overeating. No conventioneers in sight, the "Mob Hits" music playing over the stereo, the maitre d' and waiter treating us like long lost family... feels like home. And I don't have to sneak any peeks at name tags, either.

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I've made the official determination in the Rush Limbaugh case. My findings:

1. Rush was wrong to suggest that McNabb gets pumped up and given a free ride from the media because he's black. McNabb gets brutalized like any other player who performs poorly in Philadelphia. He gets fried by the guys on WIP, sliced and diced by the Daily News writers, treated like any other quarterback who couldn't find an open receiver if there was a 30 foot neon arrow blinking over his head.

2. It was clearly an opinion about the media. An uninformed, knee-jerk opinion about the media, but an opinion about the media nonetheless.

3. Ergo, it should have been a case where his co-workers called him out on it, but hardly a big controversy. No punishment except the embarrassment when the other guys slap him back down.

4. The drug thing's more fun, anyway.

There's the ruling. Glad to clear that up for everyone. Next!

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It's cold here.

DAMN, it's cold.

Okay, it's not all THAT cold. Still, I've been away from this kind of weather for about a decade, so 50 degrees with a stiff breeze blowing up Broad Street feels like Edmonton in January to me. It's one reason why I bailed on east coast living- man wasn't intended to inhabit places where several months of the year are conducted in temperatures this low.

When I was growing up on this side of the country, I told myself I liked the change of seasons, that I could never like living where the sun was ALWAYS shining and the weather NEVER got too cold. I believed that. I don't anymore.

I still love Philly, every grimy street and every fantastic Reading Terminal Market food stand and every cheesesteak (pizza sauce, provolone, no onions) in the city. I love the weird accent with the multisyllabic "o" ("Are you gaowing to the Wawa? Get me a haowgie and some Krimpets"). I love the way the lights look atop Liberty Place and the big PSFS sign all lit up, advertising a bank that doesn't exist anymore. I love gazing in the shop windows and checking out the freak show on South Street, I love the gentility and beauty of the Main Line, I love the people whining about the Iggles on WIP.

But I hate the cold. I hate walking out the door and seeing my breath. I hate spending several months unable to do anything outside. I can't live like that.

Anymore.

We've had a great, great time in Philadelphia this week. And we will absolutely be back soon.

In summer.

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One last night in Philadelphia and we hit the road again. The city looks especially good tonight- the sunset was Pacific-worthy, the tallest buildings topped by pink lighting (in honor of a breast cancer awareness event), the weather's clear and cool. It's a nice way to end the week, and a nice image with which to end the week. (I'd post a picture, but the ones I took didn 't come out quite right)

So we'll take home good feelings from the week. And heartburn. I ate way too much, way too bad. Cheesesteaks from Jim's and Mama's. Bassett's ice cream. Chicken Parm at Portofino. Pretzels, bagels, chocolate, whatever we can't get back home. Most of it was smothered in cheese, glorious cheese, wonderful cheese, marvelous cheese.

And now, it's time to pay.

Next week: fasting to make Dick Gregory look like Dom Deluise.

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