Dear Philadelphia,

We love you. We hate you. To be all Dr. Phil about it, we love-hate you (we’re not full of self-righteous fundamentalist bullshit, but you get the picture). You’re rude, crude, and don’t hesitate to yell at us when we take, in your opinion, too much time shuffling our black stiletto-ed selves across Broad Street to take in the Kimmel Center’s latest fare. Yet, like that “totally deep” Goth kid we liked in junior high, you can have your “sweet side” too. Smooth and silky, just like those R&B songs we hear blasting outside our windows in West Philadelphia. We were impressed when you dashed after us outside of La Columbe Panini, clutching the Fendi baguette bag that Daddy spent his hard-earned money on. We were touched then, Philadelphia. Maybe, we thought, you really are the city that loves us back.

That is, until we read Citypaper. The “I Love You, I Hate You” section. In our opinion, it’s a true cross-examination of the Philadelphian psyche. And Philadelphia, we’re not surprised that you join the ranks of Michelangelo, Ben Stiller, and Sting: you’re bipolar. And Sting is like, pretty cool and shit. The music he's created over the years, we don't really listen to it, but the fact that he's making it, we respect that. Dude.

Anyway. The “I Hate You”s are pretty darned self-explanatory. Interspersed with “fuck the police that gave me a parking ticket” and “SUV drivers deserve to rot in a gasoline-fueled hell” is the “Greta” series: “I wish you would swallow cyanide and razor blades and then get kicked in the stomach by an entire sixth-grade soccer team.” Or perhaps this more recent missive from a resident of Third and Wildey streets: “To the woman who insists on yelling at all hours of the night…someone should smack you around a little bit to shut the hell up.” Cyanide? Domestic violence? There’s a reason why Citypaper makes brunch at Rx that much more compelling. And it’s not ‘cause of that cute waiter with the blue eyes.

But the “I Love You”s? Those could make even Vin Diesel melt. Like this recent snippet to a “Onderful Onedergirl:” “Hope springs eternal. Someday we will meet on the other shore after both of our journeys.” Or this ode to a “Shaven Angel”: “You were the best advertisement for the beauty of lack of hair that I have ever glimpsed (with that perfect body holding up a blue strapless dress!)” Or this message to “Wind” – “I invite you to suck my dick.”

Hmm. Perhaps the “I Love You”s ain’t so sweet, smooth, and silky after all.

Sure, some of this newspaper grafitti is the stuff of courtly love, directed towards the finest, most reverent missed Philadelphia barmaids in life. But some of it’s… well… downright nasty. “I may have had a love/hate relationship with you,” says one would-be author, “but my relationship with your ass was always love.” We don’t think we’re gonna let our grandma read Citypaper. Or Richard Gere, for that matter.

It’s easy to dismiss the explicit sexuality that permeates the page as an outlet for pent-up feelings that don’t leave after one is home from the nightclub. And that’s (mostly) true. But we’ve been taking our Classical Studies, and while we’re sometimes bleary eyed in class after long nights partying at DU and playing Quizzo at Smoke’s, we do, you know, pay attention. And there was something about this chick named Iambe that caught our eye.

See, the Greek goddess of farmin’, Demeter, was in the underworld this one time trying to find her daughter, Persephone. Iambe was waiting on depressed Demeter hand and foot, and started to get pretty pissed off that the goddess refused to even crack a smile (however, if the supreme god of the underworld stole my daughter, I’d probably be pretty upset too.) So Iambe decides to get Demeter to guffaw with the only way she can think of: flashing her tits. Of course, in the era before Girls Gone Wild, this was hysterically funny. Demeter loses it.

So what does this have to do with Citypaper? Iambe was the ingenue for the classical genre known as Iambic poetry, a compendium of obscene and base lyrics that has its origins in ancient Greece. Popularized by such big-time names as Hipponax and Archilochus, the Iambics were bawdy messages to women (and men!) that would make Ludacris blush. There’s stuff about anal sex, sadomasochism, and perhaps the earliest recorded version of date rape. Were Bill O’Reilly Athenian, Iambic poets would probably enter his “no-spin zone.”

Iambic poetry would often be recited in public, at festivals designated to inspire sexual fertility. Which got us thinking about Citypaper. Crowded concerts and nightclubs offer the chance to get jiggy wit’ it, but outside of locker rooms and massage parlors, rarely anyone talks about when and with whom and exactly how they wanna get jiggy. There’s no old Greek men running around to legitimize writing an ode to doggy style and the finer points of bondage, and no autumnal festivals where people can dance around the campfire and make like Dionysus (at least, not that we know of). So in comes “I Love You, I Hate You,” a veritable 21st century version of the stuff that made people with names like Hipponax famous. And because we don’t consider T&A “high art,” all of its authors get the anonymous card. And it works. The more things change, the more they stay the same. Citypaper's "I Love You, I Hate You" is more than just graffiti and shout-outs from Philadelphia's seamy and SEPTA-infused underbelly. It's also classical.

See, Philadelphia? We’re still rude, crude, and nasty, but we're also, like, old and stuff. We bet you didn’t think the ancient Greeks had anything to do with your coveted alternative weeklies. But they do. When it comes down to it, you really just wanna make babies. And in your own little twisted way, shout-outs to bouncers and baristas accomplish this goal. We didn’t say you weren’t complicated. Or bipolar.

Love (and hate - sort of),
Phillial

Photo credit: NW Film Center