What do you think of when you think of Philadelphia? Ben Franklin? The Liberty Bell? Rocky? Cheesesteak? A witch shooting milk out of her tits?

Philthadelphia got a little dirtier last weekend when Dana, Steve and Jerry came to visit. I can't believe how much we managed to squeeze into three days -- Pat's and Geno's, the Liberty Bell, the Mutter Museum, Reading Terminal Market, Olde City, Va La Winery, the NBA finals at Stadium Grille, tromping around nature and a mini True Blood season one marathon.

All in all, a great visit (despite the fact that their plane was ridiculously delayed and they ended up getting to my place at 3:00 a.m. -- dub, Southwest? Dub?) and I can't wait to see them again.



We started with The Great Philly Cheesesteak Taste-Off -- Pat's vs. Geno's. Our first stop was Geno's where the food was mediocre, the decor was touristy and garish and a framed photo of Sarah Palin made our collective stomachs turn. No bueno.



Then, we hit Pat's -- it's a little less flashy than Geno's, but the meat's better, the bread's better, the fries are better and there's no framed photos of halfwit politicians, so it was the obvious winner.



After checking out the Liberty Bell and learning that Ben Franklin was essentially a frat boy (all about beer, broads and farting, that dude...), we hit up the Mutter Museum. The museum is essentially a medical library founded by the Philadelphia College of Physicians and while small, is stocked with all sorts of crazy stuff -- paraphernalia on conjoined twins, creepy fetal skeletons, a nine-foot color containing 40lbs of fecal matter (too many cheesesteaks?) and books bound in human leather. Totally bizarre and totally awesome.



Looking at skulls and malignant tumors left us feeling peckish, so we hit the best lunch spot in the city -- Reading Terminal Market. I love this place. You can get crepes, dolmas, samosas, fresh produce, Amish goodies and BBQ ribs all under the same roof. What's not to like?!

In regards to the above picture, this is basically how it went down:

*CLICK*
Jerry: You know that's a garbage can, right?
Jaime: What? Oh, gross! You couldn't have told me before I licked it?
Jerry: It's funnier this way.

My friends are assholes.

I needed something to get the garbage can taste out of my mouth, so we went in search of a bar. A near impossible feat in Philly, right?



We ended up at Brownie's -- an Irish pub where the bartender was surly, the Tom Collins' were refreshing and the upstairs room was ours for the taking. We spent our time rocking out to The Faces, Better Than Ezra, Guns 'N Roses, Michael Jackson, Marvin Gaye and The Dropkick Murphys, playing darts, pool and basically acting like idiots. It was awesome.



Then, Dana and I got into a bar brawl with some dude named Bruce Banner. You wouldn't like us when we're angry....

After a day of Irish pubs and comic book stores, we decided to do something a little more sophisticated, so we headed to Avondale to the Va La Winery.



It was pretty sweet. Especially when Dana and I heard the magic words -- "Let me get you some more cheese."



Yeah, wine is pretty magical.

As I said before, it was a fantastic trip and it really made me miss living near my best friends. Everything from big stuff like wandering museums to little things like listening to truly awful music on the radio. Even though I live 1000 miles away from them, I am so incredibly lucky to have people like this in my life. So damn lucky and so damn loved.

Have you ever been to Florida? It's a criminal population. It's America's Australia.

Florida is all humidity, sun-baked palm trees, six-second showers and heat that smothers around you like a thick, heavy blanket.

It's big bombastic thunderstorms that rattle the windowpanes and cause car alarms to blare. It's rain so heavy, you can't see five feet in front of your face. It's the nostalgia and familiarity of Jason Davis and the Elevator From Hell. It's driving 20 mph on 95 due to the weather, singing along to non-offensive pop rock from the 90s and Steve Miller's Rockin' Me over and over and over again.

It's trying to surprise your mom but failing (thanks for keeping the secret, asshole) and walking into her work shouting, "Hey lady! How much for a shirt?" It's remembering just how tiny your Mom is. It's giving your dad a big hug and surprising yourself by getting teary-eyed over how much you missed the guy.



It's the world sweetest, smartest dogs -- Phoebedog's noises, Maya's wagging tail, Nala's big brown eyes, bellyrubs, stinky kisses and stealthy poops.



It's hugs-hugs-hugs-hugs, new jokes with old friends, apologizing for apologizing for calling one of your best friends a bitch while playing video games, dirty words on the board at Lush Manor, margaritas, Sparkletinis, berry vodka with soda while watching your memories flicker on screen and listening to the craziest, dirty-dirtiest hip hop.



It's homemade Indian food and the constant pestering to eat more, gossiping until midnight, the omnipresent prattle of the Indian satellite channel and watching Mom go gangbusters on bugs with her broom. It's the world's most comfortable couches, the head-nodding lullaby of the fan and raindrops hitting the big window, discovering ancient Judy Blume books in your old bedroom and laughing hysterically at Just As Long As We're Together and Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret.



It's Spanglish on the radio, reggaeton blaring from souped-up Hondas, the excitement of discovering Jarritos in plastic bottles, it's talking about the space-time continuum from Lost and the grandfather paradox at the kitchen table and seeing condoms and pregnancy tests next to one another in the clearance aisle.



It's home. It's family. It's your heart. It's never wanting to leave but knowing you can always come back.

If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.

One of the reasons I love these guys so much is that whenever the question, "Are you hungry?" is posed -- the answer is always, "I could eat."

I love people who love food. People who make semi-orgasmic noises when falling all over a big sandwich. People who lick their fingers with shameless abandon when they're eating ribs or chicken or anything remotely messy. People who are well acquainted with condiments and fiercely defend their love of Frank's Red Hot or Sriracha. People who understand that dinner can last three hours easily.

That being said -- any recommendations where this girl can go to dinner on her birthday?

Two rules:

A) Must be within a 15 mile radius of West Chester, PA
B) Must have a full bar or failing that, a kickass margarita selection.

I mean, I'm going to be 25. If that doesn't justify at least one good, stiff drink, I don't know what does.