You know the concept of local has penetrated the Philadelphia zeitgeist when this happens, a local sweetened veal stick. It was ground just a hop and a skip from here, blended lip-sweet, then smoke-dried into a tender and engaging meat snack. The final product is individually wrapped by hand for elegance of presentation and an authentic, locally crafted feel. Available now at your convenience store checkout.

Some time back my headphones busted and I needed a new pair. My flight was leaving in mere hours and I was left with the choice of going bare or breaking every personal rule and buying from Radio Shack.

So I broke my rules, but also my ear drums, because according to the research and development team at Radio Shack, the human ear canal is shaped like a giant round coin (or maybe a marble) requiring an ear bud similarly giant and round. It featured a slicing sharp plastic-y edge where the mold should have sealed in the bubbling plastic, but did not. P.S. I completed my air journey without being able to listen to my Britney Spears collection because it was literally too painful to do so, and that’s saying a lot.

Now if you asked me, what’s the oenological equivalent of Radio Shack? (Comes up all the time) I would without skipping a beat shine an exacting and unsentimental light on our state liquor stores. Technically they carry wine, but if you’ve ever tried to drink any of it, you’re bound to Bonnie Bell yourself into a flavor situation like our wine label above:

Two Vines Merlot features aromas of cola, cream soda and caramel leading into expressions of vanilla and strawberry jam on the smooth palate. Flavors of spice round out the silky finish.

As the label makes clear it’s a product of Washington state. We can claim no role in its production. But perhaps in its inception? Because while I have yet to see this particular configuration anywhere in the Pacific Northwest, it and similar fare seem to have a comfortable, rooted hold here in PA.

The label wraps with this summation: “Complex without being complicated.” You might even say that describes the Philly esprit de corps as well. For Monday, October 3, that’s the Philly POV.

The Pain Center. It even looks painful. The font alone is excruciating. Perhaps you go there to receive pain? After you …

30th Street Station. Gateway to the City of Brotherly Love. If you smell something stinking. As part of your warm welcome to the City of Ill-adelphia (spelling theirs), you get all this. High fashion, people-positive messaging, sensible nutrition and dazzling retail design, offered in a clean, inviting setting, with busker-sellers who catcall and harass with the volume, presumptuousness, passion and tone-deaf relentlessness of the feistiest Watchtower worker blended with the hungriest Hollywood paparrazi. It’s our very best foot forward, all nestled against concrete the color of reflected dirt and a generous length of busted prison fence. Enjoy your stay.

Submitted without commnet.

Make no mistake. Philadelphians are serious about their pork. Hence this visual at today’s local sandwich joint. Note the ominous tones. The deep fried panic in those baked charcoal eyes. This little piggy did not go down without a fight. Now perhaps if it knew its final destination, it would have seen things from our point of view and let up a little. To wit: a piping hot cheesesteak tucked into Sarcone’s sesame, lathered with peanut butter, bacon, and garlicky sriracha. Wash that mess down with a Triaminic cherry soda and you’ll go wee wee wee, all the way home.

I’d been doing side work for someone the past several days whose ass persona had the power to drain the color out of beautiful and bring unhappiness and pain to all in their wake.

So initially when I found myself with actual ass pain I wrote it off as nothing more than a bad contact high. It too shall pass! I hoped, though as I was reminded, hope alone rarely cures anything. (See: current presidency.) 

Several nights running the seconds became minutes, then hours, with me wide awake in bed straining for comfort against this growing … force between my thighs. I threw my legs straight in the air, then reorganized into loose scissors, probably did something called a reverse cowboy and whatever else one does at midnight when overheated, alone, and armed with a three-set of oversized purple linen pillows.

Nothing stamped the pain out. Not ibuprofen, not teasing open the freezer and eating the special occasion dessert spares. So I phoned a friend, a doctor, who said she felt pretty sure that whatever it was, it probably wasn’t the prolapse of my feminine sleeve, which was somewhat relieving.

Doctor friend number two, having the advantage of being local, very generously offered to come over and get all Murder She Wrote excavation with mirrors, lights and a show, and of course I said thank you but Please God, No. How do you go out for dessert with your friend after that? You and he, teaspoons primed, opposite ends of a melting brownie sundae. Too much downside.

Fortunately he got me into a clinic and next day I went. It was not an easy trip over there. I was breaking into sweats and chills and my walk was just a shuffle. Also I could not sit down. I managed to greet the fresh-faced medical student handling my case (Hi, Justin!) ass first. I can only hope this did not make me appear cheap or easy.

He popped onto a low swivel chair and began taking my medical history. Each answer I gave was earnestly keyed into the dumb terminal. With every item answered I felt somehow more accomplished, if not healed, and maybe almost cooler, because here we were all getting on and I was doing so well. Just two handsome guys having a friendly chat, me with a choice of hospital gowns. And then, he popped the question:

“Any sexual activity?”

You’d think this might be one of those times you’re relieved that the truth is no. “You mean this Tuskegee Experiment? Absolutely not. I’m a lady!” Or however it might come out, but I would have at least liked the option to pin it on something other than a gathering of cobwebs and the passage of time.

“None,” I said.

I’m not even sure that was a valid answer for the system because it took him an extra second to key it in and move to the next item.

After getting amazing care (thank you to an incredible Jefferson doctor. If you’re reading this, you know who you are) I was sent off to treat an abscess the size of Gibraltar with a medical cocktail potent enough to knock out an elephant and blow a hole to China all in one breath.

Then there were the … other items on my shopping list. Always Maxi pads (heavy flow, no wings.) And a donut.

Not a delicious baked donut, sugar, cinnamon, jellied or creamed. Rather an inflatable donut-shaped cushion you put in the bathtub when your ass is no longer a commodity, it’s a project, and it has to sit there (sitz there?) while the warm water whirls around and does what it likes to do.

In childhood I loved my big red India rubber ball. And now I was to be reunited with the very same item that brought so much joy, just reshaped into something saggier and flatter.

I thought I’d missed the medical supply store when overhead I spotted a most Philly piece of graffiti, and that’s what you’re seeing in the photo now. A spray-painted line drawing of a wheelchair. Further described by a talk bubble that says WHEEL CHAIRS.

This is not the graffiti of pain and redemption. It doesn’t acknowledge and it doesn’t heal. It doesn’t convey anything at all. It simply announces what’s there.

For Sunday, Sept. 11, that’s the Philly POV.

As our newspapers attest: Philly is never one to back down from a fight.

Today, from the brilliant merchandisers at Rite Aid. What everyone shops for in a hurricane.