Filthadelphia (pt. 1)
That gritty, grungy city.
Something about it always turned my head down, always made me want to tell it to fuck off. Sitting on the crest of the highway it sat like a bouncer over my suburb, daring us small town folk to take a swing.
For 18 years, I watched it sneer.
Driving the Betsy Ross Bridge always felt like descending into the mouth of some beast; it’s cabled fangs ready to snap down. An unforgiving landscape of broken down factories, crumbling brownstones and barred corner stores laid on the other side of that portal. It was a place where cobblestones met cracked asphalt and history had weathered down into a prop. Walking it’s streets, I never knew if there was actually a shadow behind me, or if it just felt that way.