Good morning.

I'm sitting at my little Northern Liberties perch up on the third floor. I look down at the school-house condos' parking lot and two big fields that I anticipate in a number of years will be built up and developed. But for now it's wide open. I see church spires, row homes, and blocks that are hundreds of feet away. I see the same cars usually - that sexy little navy Porsche convertible, that boxy white VW Rabbit (maybe, I don't know). I saw a bum walk toward N Front St today shouting indecipherable rants to the air this morning, but mostly I see hip young white people: tattoos, messy hair, some with big plastic glasses, most with meticulously un-meticulous wardrobes. No matter, I relish this space. It's so clean and serene.

This morning I listen to "The Train Song" sang by Feist with Ben Gibbard for Dark Was The Night. It's a slow guitar strum that does manage to sound like the rhythm of a road (or a train) - chugging, churning, moving toward something on a trip. "It's so many miles and so long since I've met, don't even know what I find when I get to you, but suddenly now, I know where I belong" sing Leslie and Ben together and then the infectious chorus comes in: "It's many hundred miles and it woooon't be long." The later choruses are lifted up with the help of some kind of choral background vocals. The other day I was riding my bike to work and this song came on my shuffle. I have had this Dark Was The Night record for a while but it's spread all over my iTunes because there are so many artists on it. I figured out how to go back with my shuffle, a triple click on toward the bottom, so I listened to "The Train Song" at least four times singing the chorus as loudly as I could.

There are a few moments that I love about my trips to Center City from here. When I walked up N Front to the Girard El stop there's a pretty nutso intersection at Girard and Front. A trolley splits both directions (east and west-bound) and springs up little islands to wait for the trolley between car lanes, there's a crosswalk signal that goes from Walk to a countdown to Don't Walk within about three seconds, but somehow I manage to walk right up to the crosswalk at the right time. I won't go into the convenience store just past the stairway up to the station unless I'm drunk and want cigarettes. The couple times that I've gone in in the morning, foolishly looking for a grill or cans of soda I've practically been chased out by a crimped-hair, aggravated, shouting woman.

"This fucking city is run by pigs, they take away the rights from all the kids," Dave Longstreth sings, "I walk down the street, I flip them off, they hit me across the head with a billy club. Nothing I do, noooothing I say, I tell them to go Get Fucked. They put me awayyyaaayyyyy, awwwwaaaayayyayyayyyaaaa." The Dirty Projectors have been soundtracking my life for the past couple months. This is one of my favorite parts of Rise Above. These lyrics are delivered kind of spastically but bookended by airy and calming flutes and background vocals on "Police Story." I smile whenever I hear the first soaring flutes. This song makes me feel like I live in a city. I do, I know that. But this song really confirms it for me. I'm a part of a big breathing urban culture, there are cops everywhere, but I'm in good shape as long as I stay in line and let the other creepier, more fucked up residents step up and take the brunt of attention.

There's a stretch of 10th Street between Spring Garden and Chinatown that's pretty weird. Ridge Avenue juts into 10th at a weird angle right at Callowhill. There are like three lights that I have to acknowledge and after you cross through this intersection you are bombarded by a wave of stink. Whatever is in that damn warehouse is rotten or is an above-ground dumpster space. It's right next to a sign shop, yup, signs. The other day I rode by and saw a "Now Serving Breakfast" sign with some breakfast clip art and for a split second I was like 'Oooh, breakfast. Here, really? Oh wait. That's just a sign they made.' I wouldn't be able to eat near that shit smell anyway.

I've been listening to this Major Lazer record non-stop. It's a Philadelphia project with Diplo calling on a London dude named Switch to make some grimey dancehall-type electro dance music. It feels like it's from Jamaica. I did a 30 Second Review of it and I compared it to the Kill Bill soundtrack but blunted, oily, naked and blacklit. For shear concerns of space, blunted got taken out and that was disappointing. But I do love "Mary Jane," it's one of my favorite tracks, if not for the one line "so I suck his Buddha stick" then for the chorus of "roll it, twist it, spark it up." My other favorites are "Hear the Bassline" and "Pon de Floor." I wrote that it sounds like it will make bitches wanna pop that booty. I am one of those bitches. I am learning everyday, with the help of this record, how most effectively to pop my booty. My roommate, Sierra, would have you believe that I do it well already. She is impressed and tries to pop her booty with me but seems to feel like I do it better than her. One day I will be an excellent breakdancer.