At work this morning I got into an unusually passionate debate with a coworker about which is the largest city park in the United States. He adamantly maintained that it was Golden Gate Park, in San Francisco. And I, being a proud Philadelphian, boasted that Fairmount Park was the undisputed urban park champ of the world.

Well, turns out both of us are wrong. And, to my Brooklyn homies out there, no, it ain’t Prospect Park either. Nor is it Central Park, you egocentric Manhattanites!

According to The Straight Dope, Golden Gate, with its measly 1,107 acres, wouldn’t even be in the top ten. At 840 acres, Central Park would come in at about 15th place. By comparison, Philly’s Fairmount Park looks like Goliath, with 4,618 acres (4,239 if you deduct the Schuylkill River, which runs right down the middle). But even that isn’t enough to give it the top spot. It’s not number two, either!

As it turns out, one city lays claim to both. The largest city park in the U.S. is South Mountain Park, currently 16,169 acres but planning to expand to 16,455. Which city spawned this monster? None other than cursed Phoenix, the metropolitan abortion that just usurped Philly as the 5th largest city in the U.S. This cancer of the Southwest is also home to the number two park, Phoenix Mountain Reserve, which is also expanding from 7,358 to 7,750 acres.

Still, I’m not willing to concede nothin’ to Phoenix — Phoe-friggin-nix! If insisting that Philly has the largest urban park is wrong, then I don’t want to be right.

Technorati Tags: Philadelphia, Phoenix, Parks, Fairmount Park, Golden Gate Park, Central Park

When we returned to Philly last weekend, after spending a few fun-filled days skiing and Treasure Troving with the Mendes clan, the Feb. 28 issue of People Magazine was waiting by the front door. For once, just once, I leapt for it — knowing full well what was waiting inside. As I’ve said before, People is Ana’s version of bedtime crack. But to me, on this particular occassion, it held the cure to my recent bout of insomnia. A way to end the nightmares, the marital bickering over my newest hobby — in short, a quote from me in an article about “A Treasure’s Trove.”

Lemme explain …

Being a hopeless romantic, I decided to make this year’s Valentine’s Day a spur-of-the-moment kind of holiday. By which I mean, Passion was fully booked up and OpenTable.com wasn’t cooperating with my last-minute scrambling.

When my attempted breakfast in bed, of chocolate chip pancakes and bacon, was met with a meager appetite and stifled yawns, it became quickly apparent that dinner at Smoke’s or Cereality might not be the ironic evening encore I’d originally planned. In a last-ditch effort at originality, I hit upon the website for World Cafe Live, the live-music space in WXPN‘s new building. As luck would have it, they were hosting a Valentine’s Day “Jam Lover’s Fest” with none other than Oteil Burbridge. What’s that, you say? Oteil who? Oteil Burbridge, formerly of the Allman Brother’s band, of course. You know, the bassist. Awww jeah.

It took about five minutes of hearing Oteil jam, later that night, before I realized, Christ, I hate the Allman Brothers! I hate jam bands even more! What was I thinking? I started having horrible flashbacks to a New Year’s Eve Phish concert that I went to back in college, where the band would rhyme nonsensically and riff for 45 minutes on one song (no joke). Oteil wasn’t that bad, but still, a five-minute bass guitar jam feels like an eternity when all you really want to hear is “Freebird.”

Fortunately for Ana and me, everything else about our trip to the WXPN building was well worth the five-minute drive. The comfort food at the joint was de-lish; the renovated Hajoca building was decked out in mahogany paneling and funky, colorful decor; and the warm-up act, The Blue Method, was kinda catchy. I still don’t understand why, during one of their solo instrument jams, Ana felt the need to declare the saxophonist dead sexy. But this was more than made up for by the moo-moo wearing lead singer, a fella named Brian Williams. In addition to making Ruban Studard look like a toothpick, Willimas brought tears to my eyes as he sang gloriously, reached deep into his soul for the lyrics, paused briefly to hock a loogie, and then played the trumpet.

In some ways, I felt that World Cafe Live could still use a little Trading Spaces action. The tables and chairs in the Downstairs performing space, where we were, seemed like the kind you’d find in a high school cafeteria — cheap Formica and aluminum. But besides some minor decorating quibbles, I thought the space had phenomenal potential. I know Philly has plenty of live-music dinner joints, with Warmdaddy’s, Zanzibar Blue, Ortleibs, and Tritone already scattered around town. But let’s be honest: In these joints it’s often difficult to see the band, and the acoustics are downright fugly. The XPN building has the only stage large enough for a band to actually shake their bootie, as well as an amphitheater that’s actually designed for music listening. What more can you ask of a former plumbing supply warehouse?

Hopefully World Cafe Live will start drawing some decent talent soon (the only name I recognized in the next month was Edwin McCain, who I think may have played cowbell for Blue Oyster Cult). But even if they don’t draw the John Legends of the world I’ll probably head back soon anyway. The “Sunday Gospel Brunch” sounds too good to pass up.

Technorati Tags: Philadelphia, Live Music, WXPN

I can’t believe I forgot to post about this, the single coolest Christmas present I saw this year. Wish I could remember who it was that decided to get the triplets’ the Princess of the Portuguese Empire™ Barbie® doll, but whoever it was, they’re a genius in my book.

While we were passing the doll back and forth on Christmas day, I could clearly tell that the girls’ non-Portuguese grandparents were feeling left out of the joyous merchandising melee, the yuletide commercialization of one’s ethnic heritage. To make them feel better I said something like, “Now we have to get Albanian Barbie and Turkish Barbie to complete the set!”

I was being facetious, of course, but little did I know that there really are Barbie dolls based on just about every country of the world. There’s Icelandic Barbie®, Czechoslovakian Barbie®, and Princess of the Korean Court™ Barbie®. But amazingly, just about the only Barbies they don’t have are ones to match Mr. and Mrs. Shoro’s native countries! The closest I could find was Grecian Goddess Barbie® — and to be perfectly honest, she ain’t quite hot enough to live up to the Barbie name.

Anyway, now that I’m family, I figure it’s safe to just exploit my own heritage. That’s why I’ve already pre-purchased the Scottish Barbie® 2nd Edition (left) for next Christmas. What 10 year old wouldn’t want to cuddle up next to this lassie?

Technorati Tags: Barbie

This update on my treasure troving is long overdue. As I’ve already said, I’m spending an inordinate amount of time studying and puzzling over Michael Stadther’s book, and though Ana has recently started cracking down, I was able to get out and search one site before her “mandatory break period” was implemented. And the lucky location was … Washington Square Park.

But first, a preface to the story, an explanation of what drew me Old City. Since New Year’s I’ve been posting daily to a website called tweleve.org, a snazzy bulletin board that popped up to service all the newly minted treasure hunters (the URL is a nod to weirdly written numbers in the book). As the recent spike of visitors to TurkeyMonkey.com attests, my new friends at twelve have been swarming this blog. And sooner or later, I knew that some of the fanatics were bound to contact me. Which is exactly what happened two weeks ago, when I got an email from OSmaster, aka David, who said he urgently needed to talk.