Catherine Rogers forgets that she’s on a diet
I SUPPORT Philadelphia sports teams as much as most girls in West Chester. I know what a first down is. I have the obligatory, snug-fitting Phillies T-shirt, and enjoy attending games, aside from the mind numbing traffic and the obnoxious fans. So, I dug out my one shirt associated with Philadelphia sports in hopes of winning tickets or at least expanding my sports wardrobe, and headed off to Alibis’ Philly Party.
Often my choice of attire and/or my attitude makes me stick out in most public settings like a raisin in a bowl of rice. Philly night at Alibis was no exception. No one was wearing sports gear. There was a hint of the 15-North’s days, but the bar was cleaner, clearer and the bluish haze of cigarette smoke was nowhere to be seen.
I spent my time at the bar discussing with my friend whether hair growth is related more to nationality or hormones. Replays of Michael Vick firing off passes while twisting and darting around the field played across the bar television sets. As more people began to arrive, raffle tickets were distributed and lively, anticipatory chatter ensued.
Jen, our friendly, highly efficient bartender, was racing around handing out 50-cent drafts, while I pestered her about where she got her various tattoos. They were fantastic tattoos. Cherry blossoms, lilies, sparrows and skulls meandered about her arms, and her direct, humorous manner, along with several nicely timed glasses of wine was slowly numbing the pain of the work day, and an irritating twenty-dollar parking ticket. How dare I enter the borough without a sackful of quarters at my disposal? DJ Romeo was playing underground hip-hop, as well as intermittently calling out winning ticket numbers for sports gear, tickets and other merchandise. Winners waved their tickets in the air like traders on the New York stock exchange, while I suspiciously re-reviewed my meaningless ticket number, in hopes I had heard incorrectly. I won nothing. I never do at these things, but I was still enjoying myself.
The bar at Alibis has, cleverly, been left open to the kitchen near the front door. The smell of cheesesteaks wafted through the air, and I was powerless to resist. Five bucks buys you a sandwich that tastes like heaven, served up by a very sociable, fast-delivering cook. I ate my food and chatted with the bouncers who were filled with sarcastic wit, as opposed to the stereotypical, massive, stone-faced security staff you so often find. Sadly, I left Alibis with only the Philly gear I had arrived wearing, only my snug-fitting Phillies shirt clung a bit tighter, thanks to that cheesesteak.
