This semester (not to mention the last few years) has flown by! I am adding to the legions of people reminiscing and unfortunately also having a public forum to express their leaving-the-nest issues.

I would like to start by thanking you, the readers of my posts for this semester. I value your comments deeply, even the intolerably rude ones, and I am grateful for your attention. Next, I’d like to thank Ashwin, the editorial page editor here at The DP for advice, being a sounding board for ideas and for generally letting me bug him. Finally, my undying thanks to Lindsey Stull, opinion blog editor, for suggesting this gig in the first place and for showing such remarkable patience with me over the semester (you’ll never really know quite how much).

Back to you guys. To the rising sophomores: man up already and start exploring this city. Philadelphia has a lot to offer (seriously) and you all (sophomores and others alike) would do well to start exploring and discovering. Whether it’s food (brunch=Rx or Ants Pants), or clubs (jazz around here, more conventional downtown), or art (First Fridays and antiques row are a lot of fun), Philadelphia has much to offer you. On top of studying like crazy, make sure you take the opportunity to fill up on such experiences. As great as New York is, don’t count Philly out — it has a lot New York does not.

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I had a rather rambunctious night last night with my friend Jose Cuervo, and ended up making an extended offering to the porcelain god. So extended was my act of worship that I think I killed it.

What does this have to do with you?

Well, when it comes to trying to resurrect your god, especially when you have another kind of offering to give it, Philadelphia’s plumbers are rather indifferent. So we come to the first part of the title: Plumbing.

I called no less than fifteen plumbers in the local area. The best they could do was Monday. Monday. That’s 2.5 days of going from my apartment to Huntsman to use the goddamn toilet. By the tenth plumber I was pretty irate —

“Would you like it if you had a clogged toilet for three days?” I cried. By the fifteenth, I was livid.

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Ours is a culture of nostalgia. Sometimes that nostalgia is immediate, like the million-member Facebook group “When I was your age, Pluto was a planet.” And other times it’s for a time we don’t even really remember, like VH1’s I Love the ’80s.

So now, on the verge of graduation, I think it’s appropriate for me to do a little Penn-themed reminiscing of my own. You underclassmen might not remember, but things weren’t always so easy for us students. I’m talking about an era where if you wanted wireless internet, you went to Van Pelt. My memory’s a little cloudy, but I think it’s coming back to me now…

Back in my day, we had the Triangle Diner. TriDi was open 24/7, and it would deliver right to your room in Spruce or even Hamilton. The walls in TriDi were covered with Polaroids of undergrads and waiters dancing to the 50’s tunes that the jukebox would play. And the disco fries were delicious.

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Just beyond the confines of University City, there are people who couldn’t be further from the stereotypes that define the Penn student body. A people without UA, or SASgov, or even the oft-impersonated SPEC. They call no government their own, and don’t ask to be taken to their leader, because they don’t have one.

Who is this mysterious tribe? They are the anarchists of West Philadelphia, and there are more of them than you might think.

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Oxygen, sleep, and food. These are the basic physiological necessities. Without them, we’d be quite uncomfortable and complain a lot. Once we tired of complaining, we’d give up and die. But I say, we’re too young and pretty to die (look at my picture). 

So before you freak out, let’s just think this over. Oxygen? Check. Sleep? Check — thank you time management. How about food (i.e. nutrients, sustenance)? Get out your Family Feud signs: survey says X. Now it’s time to freak out.

Every time I hear that grumble in my tummy, I remember. And it pains me. The West Philadelphia “dining scene” makes me want to barf. (No fair! I thought I’d get to binge before I purge.) The Woody Allen in me got me thinking: What if I remain in a perpetual bilious state… and just wither away? How am I supposed to obtain safety, love, esteem, and self-actualization?  

You see, the problem is that whoever blueprinted Philadelphia (Kevin Bacon’s father) entrusted Penn to provide us with suitable eating establishments. Mr. Bacon, didn’t you know that quality trumps quantity — especially with food? And that many of Penn’s students are kosher!

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Embarrassing but true: before this weekend I had never been to Koch’s, the tiny take-out deli located at 43rd and Locust. That means I never met Bobby Koch, the popular owner of the store, who passed away a couple of years ago.

If my belated exposure to Koch’s has any upside, it’s that my inexperience has allowed me to formulate a totally unbiased opinion, one untarnished by loyalties or nostalgia.

The verdict? Koch’s is overrated. Prices are ridiculous: my Restaurant School Special cost me $9.35. And the wait is even worse. People should stand an hour in line for Splash Mountain, not for reubens.

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