Finding a Founding Father Lacking in Accuracy

So you know those Citizens Bank ads featuring Alexander Hamilton. Most people don't have any idea of Hamilton's role in the founding of our federal banking system. In fact, a large part of our oblivious populace is not aware that it's Hamilton gracing the $10 bill (I've met some of this lamentable demographic personally).

But what's the one thing practically every school child is taught about Alexander Hamilton? That he was killed in a duel by Aaron Burr, the Vice President of the United States.

So why doesn't the actor in the Citizens Bank commercials have a big, bloody bullet hole in his lower abdomen? I mean, can't we have some concession to historicity?

It doesn't even have to be overt. Perhaps Hamilton, in touting the virtues of Citizens Bank, explains to his Federalist colleagues, "Some people get shot...a good bank gets that," as Hamilton rolls his eyes downward and motions his brow toward his damaged torso, before collapsing in agony from his mortal wound...then cue the fife-and-drum jingle as his colleagues clumsily administer a poultice and brandy in vain.

Otherwise, Alexander Hamilton is just another Founding Father, as anonymous as Nicholas Gilman or Gunning Bedford, Jr.

Why Wait for the Shake?

One never knows how one will react in moments of great stress or risk. The meek might summon unanticipated strength, and the strong may cower like a frightened dog. Either way, character is often defined at such flash points.

Just such an experience found me today when the 5.8 Virginia earthquake that shook much of the East Coast rumbled through the Philadelphia area—the first true earthquake I, and most in this neck of America, have ever endured.

I was sitting at my desk when the temblor struck. Truth be told, I was looking at porn on the computer and in the midst of self-satisfaction when the ground began shaking. Feeling the floor move and seeing the walls sway, I realized almost instantly that an earthquake was taking place. It felt a lot like when I suffered vertigo ten years ago, my sense of balance once again awry and my body momentarily helpless. Hardly in a state to rush out of my apartment building—what with my manhood exposed—I felt no such compulsion anyway. Rather than overcome by fear, I remained completely calm, as the curious novelty of the moment suppressed any trace of panic. Frankly, all I could think about once the shuddering ceased was finishing what I started. Why should plate tectonics rob me of an orgasm? Besides, if my death is imminent, I can't think of a better way to go out of this world than blowing my top to high-resolution pics of a nude, glistening Ariana Jollee spread-eagle at pool-side. Would it really make a hell of a difference that my lifeless body will be uncovered from the rubble with my pants open and my dust-covered pride hanging out? That I got right back to business instead of checking for damage, turning on the news, or escaping a potentially crumbling structure probably doesn't speak to my legacy, but I was operating on primal urge—and I remain steadfast that I did the right thing.

So much so that, like taking shelter in a basement during a tornado, perhaps I have proven that masturbation is the safest course of action during an earthquake.

Frankly, I found that the shaking so added to the pleasure—perhaps in a fashion similar to how autoerotic asphyxiation reputedly heightens orgasm—that I'm now wondering if it might pay to move to a more earthquake-prone country, such as Indonesia or Turkey, to enjoy this newfound enhancement more regularly.

Hate Baiting in Fishtown

Forget the Hulk—this is one angry banner...

The building upon which this vitriolic banner flies (this photo has not been doctored in any way) is located on the 1100 block of Earl Street, in Philadelphia's Fishtown section. The Bank of America to which this certainly refers is located around the corner, on Girard Avenue.

Now, I'm just wondering what Bank of America could have done to elicit such hatred that someone went to the time-consuming, costly, and probably perilous trouble of making this banner and affixing it to his or her home (notice there are no windows from which to easily hang it).

Did Bank of America turn down this resident's loan application for a start-up banner company? Has Bank of America slashed its business hours to 9:00–9:10 AM, Mondays only? Are Bank of America's tellers laughing at this customer's balance every time (s)he comes in to make a transaction?

Banks can be very intimidating entities with which to deal. A bank most likely has more money than you, which can make you feel inferior and disadvantaged. So this could merely be a case of fiscal jealousy; however, such rage would be misplaced, because the guitar shop, the burger place, and the realty office a few doors down from the Girard Ave. Bank of America surely also have more money than this resident—so (s)he may well just be venting at the most readily recognizable symbol of financial superiority.

But even in these economically frustrating times, in which tempers toward the well-to-do are boiling over with increasing regularity, such ire as drapes this building must certainly result from a particular action.

So I'm betting that Bank of America slept with this resident's wife...