Twenty years ago, I spent the Summer in the Philadelphia area at my parents’ place and thankfully, it was the last time I ever lived with them. After eight months of the dorms and having little adult supervision, being back under their watchful eyes was a difficult transition. Not like I was a drunken hellraiser on academic probation (a sizable faction of my wing) but I had grown accustomed to coming and going whenever I wished, not shaving for weeks at a time, playing the stereo loudly and drinking beer. Mom and Dad meant well with their nagging yet they gave me too little credit in the self-discipline department.
Over two months had passed since I moved into their cramped condo in Lansdale, PA (an hour by car from downtown Philly). The Summer had been progressing financially due to my factory job cutting/polishing carbon seals for jet engines. The work was so mind numbing, it strengthened my resolve to attend college at all costs and it cajoled me into dumping Maureen. Outside of that, everything else really sucked and I was a prisoner of the house thanks to not being added to the car insurance, even if I paid for it.
But on my 19th birthday, the clouds of annoyance lifted for the day I took off to spend in Philadelphia. A chance to see what I wanted to see or do without the bossy parents, namely hitting South Street. A coworker named Tad who was my age tagged along as my guide. We grabbed the morning train downtown which put us within walking distance of the major sites. Looking back, most of the day was a blur spent shopping, eating and browsing. I had already seen all the historical sites last Spring (Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell) so this was a consumerist expedition; South Street’s Bohemian days were long over but it wasn’t completely commercialized by chains yet. The only item I still own from that day is the Hoodoo Gurus CD I bought at Tower Records, back when it was a cool retailer to my generation. I also remember the irritation on mom’s face over the Clockwork Orange and Joy Division “Love Will Tear us Apart” shirts I scored; can’t remember which one was from the world famous Zipperhead store.
I’ve never went back to South Street or Philadelphia because my parents moved to San Diego a month later. They dropped me off at Marquette on the way out so it would be another few months before I ever set foot in California. Oddly, my Summer there made me really dislike Philly for a long time but the bigger lesson I learned was to never live with my family again. Despite the negative experience, the day on South Street was one of the three bright spots for the Summer of 1987—the other two were meeting Pat DiNizio of the Smithereens and DC’s The Watchmen series ending. The following year, I toughed it out in Milwaukee, a story for next year inPicayune, and learned this: it isn’t necessarily the city, it’s who you live with and what your means of getting around that matter more.