My third night in Philadelphia. Same house, same furniture. Old knickknacks that line the mantelpiece and the tops of old dressers bring back a deluge of memories that I wish I could store away in a box, available for my retrieval whenever I needed a whiff of my romanticized past. I love this place. I miss this place. Then I stop and realize that this isn’t completely true.

What I miss I can no longer have. I miss scurrying around corners with friends that have long ago moved to other haunts far or near, but definitely away from here. I miss my next door neighbor, a few years my junior, churning around corners on our big wheels, playing stickball in the back alley, hiding in cubbyholes and playing Atari on the back porch in the dark. Days of adventure that lead to nights dashing in and out of the heavy beam of streetlights. Seemed like endless fun, only until his mother and my grandmother called us in for the night. We said our goodbyes and knew that the next night would bring the same harmless frivolity. Night after night until the days of summer waned and it was time for me to return to my Nashville home and prepare to go back to school.

I miss sneaking a kiss or two with the girl who lived across the way — not knowing what I was doing or what those crazy butterflies in my tummy meant. I miss the tough guys that strode coolly down the cracked, weed stricken sidewalks, their steely gait portraying the rugged image they were forced to uphold. No signs of weakness were allowed on these streets. Where did they go, these young men who froze me with fright but who, in retrospect, were probably just as afraid themselves. Perhaps we were both looking out at the same world, but they saw a lot more darkness, a lot more dead ends and misery than I could see. Whenever they would pass the stoop where I sat in my Kangaroo tennis shoes with red striped socks pulled up to my kneecaps, my eyes would lower to the ground. They scared the hell out of me. But perhaps I and other skinny little kids like me were the only people they felt they could intimidate and overpower. Perhaps the rest of the world was crushing them, gradually sapping the life, the tiny granules of ambition from their very souls. Where did they go? Did they escape that mentality of “never me”. The world gives every soul a chance, but never me.

It was nice to be back, back to the place that was my home every summer until I was thirteen. Each summer I returned to spend a few precious months with my grandparents. It was only when the gangs crept in and began to threaten the innocence of the youth who only wished to race along the sidewalks and dance beneath the concrete jungle waterfalls created by the open fire hydrants that it was decided that my summers here in Philly would have to end. The introduction of danger and bullies and threats to my well-being closed the door on an era. Don’t it always seem to go, you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.

The house is the same, but at 35, I now feel smothered. After only a few nights, I am ready to leave. I’m not sure what it is that compels me to run from this place. Perhaps the abundance of ghosts from the past is too overwhelming for me. Perhaps it is when I peer at an old photo or a painting on a wall that hasn’t changed since I was five years old. It makes me long for something I can never have again. It makes me long for people, people like my grandmother who have disappeared from this earth never to return. Where does a love like that go when its physical shell dies? Unfortunately, it is not transferred to another living being in your life. It just disappears. And you spend the rest of your life holding onto the memory of it, wondering if you can ever feel such an unconditional love again. I still wonder if I ever will.

I’m back here in Philly, tracing the steps I’ve taken many times before, and yet they don’t feel the same. The house still looks the same, but it can never be the same. Like the song says, you can’t go home again.

It was announced today that Rachel Maddow will have her own show on MSNBC starting September 8th. The show will start at 9PM Eastern (8PM my time) right after Countdown with Keith Olbermann.

That’s it. The vigil can end. The gods have listened! My prayers have been answered! I will now be spending two straight hours glued to the television every weeknight. Well, one hour glued and the next hour glued and swooning.

Congrats, Rachel! You deserve it.

Anyone who reads this blog or knows me personally knows that I am pretty much in the tank for Senator Barack Obama. Barring some astronomical revelation that would completely dilute my belief that he would make the best commander and chief, it is pretty much safe to say that Senator Obama has my vote.

Having said that, within ten minutes of Rev. Rick Warren’s questioning of John McCain during the live forum tonight, I found myself saying, “Oh crap.” Senator McCain came off lucid, spiritual, intelligent, presidential and funny. He told stories that would wet the eye and make most Americans swell with patriotism. All in all, he was very very good. I hate to say it, but it’s true.

Now, it’s easy to come off smooth and charismatic when you are not in the line of fire, and McCain is known for his forays into the area of belligerence and quick anger. And things may not play out very well come debate time. But tonight, he was damn near perfect, not his ideals or policies, because I do not agree with everything he says. However, if I were one of McCain’s constituents or someone who may have been on the fence about him, I would definitely be proud of the job he did tonight.

If he comes off as well during the upcoming debates, Obama and the Democratic party may be in trouble.

knows that she is my future wife/ex-wife. She can sell me insurance anytime.