Friday! Time for a new 30 MILES OF CRAZY! (#59) with Part 4 (of 6) of 'On the Road - Philadelphia!'
“Harsh and beautiful. Tell Karl thank you. After 5 hospice referrals this week, I need this series to keep my humanity” - Theresa A. (Geriatirician & Palliative Care Doctor)
Many years ago…
“I think you should look normal. I mean, get a haircut, get rid of all the black, and go utterly straight,” my father turned and said to me over the blare of my headphones as we drove down Ashton Street.
“What the hell do you mean?”, I replied. I was 16 years old, had my hair in the standard devil-lock down passed my chin, had my required black Misfits shirt, and my battered skateboard over my knees. My father was driving us home, as I was never that great at skating.
“Go straight. Full on. Short hair, collared shirt, tie… No one will expect it.” he said with the fake smile of someone trying to con you. “Being utterly normal looking is way more punk rock than looking like all the rest of your friends.”
Like most things my father said at the time, I knew that he was full of shit.
“I get enough of ‘looking normal’ at Catholic School”, I replied, hating that I still had another year or so to go before graduation.
“I tell you, you’d look sharp!”, my father said continuing to press the point. “Get a really nicely cut suit. I used to get mine at Krass Brothers down on South Street.” Like Pavlov’s dog and most of the times during my youth, I simply rolled my eyes once again. My father would never understand. I turned up the volume a bit more on my Walkman and stared at the bland uniform row homes drift by.
It took another 16 years for me to wise up, clean up, and start wearing suits regularly. To start dressing nice and looking sharp. Only then, on visits back to the family, did he wonder aloud why I had to dress up all the time.
… and now…. on to THE FUNERAL OF CGK, Part 4… The funeral is finally over. K and I flee into the city and to a small hole in the wall off Broad Street that I spent way too many nights at 15+ years ago when I still lived in Downtown Philadelphia. Yes… though there is no sign (but murals all around), the locals know it as the great Dirty Franks.
Like all the previous posts in this series, the musical accompaniment will be one of his favorite songs. My father was the one that pointed me in the direction of this artist and started on this particular road. So with that… three… two… one… Musical Accompaniment… and GO!
Next week… the Epilogue.
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See more 30 MILES OF CRAZY! at: http://karlchristiankrumpholz.com/30-miles-of-crazy/