Sibling Rivalry

I read a book a few years back (chick-lit, for shame) in which the protagonist, a Philly newbie, remarked on how "Philadelphia was the type of place where the local newscasters were major celebrities." Growing up, I thought nothing of the fact that Lisa Thomas-Laury, Dave Roberts, and "the entire Action 6 news team" were household names. I vividly remember eating dinner in front of the television (a huge no-no in the Kelly home) one night, seeing my mom tear up as she watched the news about Jim O'Brien dying. I also remember going to Houlihan's by St. Joe's during college, in hopes of running into John Bolaris (who ALLEGEDLY ate lunch there.) And when our bus would take us back down City Line from a field hockey game, we would all hang out the window and screech for the weather forecaster who reported from outside the studio.

In the family of major east coast cities (with New York being the successful if rather self-important first son, Boston the cranky grandfather, and D.C. the dad who's always away on a business trip), what is Philly? Perhaps the brother who never went to college, is enormously talented at what he does, but never gives himself credit. Instead, he's content to lay around and bask in the glory days of high school.

Philadelphia is a city obsessed with its past. Rightfully so--it is oozing with rich, solid history. Yet unlike its founding fathers, who were always marching towards the future, its current citizens (and suburban denizens--because, let's face it, anyone within a 50-mile radius tends to refer to themselves as "from Philly"--including yours truly!) love, love, LOVE to wax nostalgic. We're like a collective Willy Loman; "woulda coulda shoulda" is our mantra. (Can you tell I'm teaching Death of a Salesman this week?)

Don't get me wrong--I adore Philly (and my dear old Delco). And I tend to have a silly little chip on my shoulder, having lived away for so long. But, like any good writer (as sporadic as that might be), I enjoy a love/hate relationship with my homebase.

My sister and I have a favorite pasttime of putting on bad Philly accents and concocting the typical Philly fam as follows:
Jim (but everyone calls him Jimmy) - big ol' sunburnt Irish guy, spiked blond hair, white sleeveless T-shirt, cutoff jeans, runs a "landscapin' compnee" and is a volunteer firefighter (tattoo: shamrock)
Denise - tanned to a crisp, halo of frosted blonde hair (which is always half-up in a fluorescent scrunchie), tight tank top, stretchy pants, Reeboks, extra scrunchie around the wrist (just in case), raspy voice (from the daily pack of Parliaments) tattoo: Tazmanian Devil ('cuz she's so CRAAAZY!)
Two non-descript kids with names like Tyler and Brianna (always dressed in various Disney paraphernalia--Brianna is especially partial to her bedraggled "Belle" dress)

You get the picture. (Or pitcher, as we like to say down here.)