A man, me, walks into a bar in South Philadelphia and orders a beer.
“Lemme see some ID,” says the bartender. The man reaches into his wallet and hands over his Illinois drivers license.
“Dis you?” asks the bartender. The man nods.
“Heheheyy,” he calls out to the guys at the end of the bar, “we got Illinois in here!”
The guys at the end of the bar just kind of shrug collectively as the bartender pours the Kenzinger.
“So, what brings you here?” the bartender asks.
“Usual vacation,” the man says. “See some baseball, maybe check out some shows or museums. Get to know the place, you know?”
“Whoa!” the bartender says. “Hey, fellas, look at this. Illinois here goes to museums on his vacations!”
The barflies, again, collectively shrug.
“I’d heard your art museum was pretty nice,” the man says, slightly perplexed.
“Oh what,” the bartender says, “you think yours is better? You think we like you coming in here telling us what we should be seein’ in OUR city?”
“No,” the man says, “I don’t, and that’s why I’m going to yours.”
The bartender stops what he’s doing. “Listen, Illinois. That crap might go over in Chicago but Philly doesn’t take it from Chicago, you got me? So either shut up about how great your town is and let us love ours or get the hell out of my bar, okay?.”
The phone rings and the bartender walks over to answer it. The man looks to his left for support but the barflies, as they often do, simply shrug. Not knowing what else to do, the man finished his beer and, indeed, got the hell out of their bar, having at once learned everything he needed to know about Philadelphia.
