What a difference a couple of blocks makes.

Wait, let me start over. Lawrence and I are both dorky white guys who work in Old City. The surrounding area, including the Ritz theaters, is what we consider our "turf". We attend screenings at said theaters on a regular basis, and feel very comfortable going to festival films when they're playing in our neighborhood. Last year we had to trek up to the Prince Music Theater for a couple of films, but this far-off venue at least provided us with pleasant walks on breezy spring days. We even attended two screenings at the International House, but even that felt very non-threatening because of its proximity to the University of Pennsylvania campus. I went to Drexel for five years, so going to the International House seemed like a trip down memory lane.

But this year is different. The 2003 festival program requires us to attend screenings at The Bridge: Cinema De Lux, a new multi-screen theater located at 40th and Walnut. That's right, the theater has a subtitle, which makes me wonder why you don't see this type of thing more often. Maybe it's because people would feel silly going to the Neshaminy AMC 24: Judgement Day or the Ritz 5: Citizens on Patrol. The bigger implication is that Lawrence and I will have to leave our safe haven on the east side of Broad Street and venture into unexplored territory. To fully enjoy this festival, we would have to venture to someone else's turf. Undeterred, we pressed on.

To get to The Bridge, we naturally rode SEPTA, the chariot of the masses. A coworker advised us against exiting the Blue Line at 40th Street, because she was certain that Lawrence and I would be assaulted and hacked to pieces within mere seconds. Thankfully that didn't happen, as our El trip to West Philadelphia proceeded without incident. Arriving on the surface I spied a delightful little food shop by the name of Crown Fried Chicken, which I just know is good because of the little crown graphic in the logo. CFC, you're the king. Walking south on 40th Street we passed some drug dealers, some stoners, a couple of hippies and a few... *ahem*... ladies of the evening. Well, maybe just one, but that was enough.

We're almost to The Bridge, but before we get there we spy the FreshGrocer, a multi-tiered grocery store forged of glass and steel tubing. It's the sexiest goddamn grocery store you'll ever see, but I couldn't help but wonder why one would ever have need of sex appeal in a grocery store. I also wondered why anyone would want to pay eight bucks for a box of Frosted Flakes just to shop in a stroke-worthy food store. Did I mention this place also has a five-story parking garage on top of it? I'm pretty sure I mentioned that. After a harrowing trip across Walnut Street we arrive at The Bridge: Cinema De Lux. We scoped out the lobby looking for the one thing we currently lacked: tickets. We weren't exactly sure how the whole thing was supposed to work, as this was our first festival with Press Passes. We decided to just butt in line and ask for tickets, which to our surprise worked great.

After securing our tickets we decided to run out and grab a quick bite to eat. Notice I said "quick"; that's called foreshadowing. The Bridge has its own restaurant, but it'll be a cold day in hell when I pay $7 for nachos. Catty-corner to The Bridge is a MacDonald's restaurant. You might have heard of these, they're all over the place. What is remarkable about this particular establishment is that it just might be the slowest fast-food joint in the entire city, and perhaps even on the entire eastern seaboard. Lawrence stepped up to the register first and ordered a double cheeseburger and value-sized fries, with a total cost of $2.14. He pays for his food and promptly receives his food. Fair enough. Right after him I order the same meal, which I quickly pay for. Then I wait. And wait. And wait some more.

While I'm waiting, I make several amusing observations. First, Lawrence is greedily scarfing down his meal, and though this might give him indigestion, it undoubtedly means that he'll be finished before I even receive my food. Next to me there are several other people waiting for food, but I realize that they were there even before Lawrence and I entered. They all ordered similar meals, which leads me to question what the fuck is going on in the kitchen. Nothing, apparently. The highlight of the evening, however, came when a customer ordered one of the new Salad Sensations off of the menu (the Bacon Ranch, I believe). He described it in explicit detail and even pointed to the giant graphic up on the menu board. This, naturally, only served to deepen the confusion of the young man behind the register.

Perhaps it was his first day on the job, but he was so utterly stupefied by his customer's selection that he might as well have been looking into the face of God Almighty as He passed eternal judgement on him. Eventually the cashier regained some sense of consciousness and realized that the customer was ordering an actual item from the menu, and asked him if he wanted crispy chicken or grilled. Finally, some closure. In the meantime, I still don't have my food. Ten full minutes have passed since I payed, but luckily the next batch of fries are done. Half-way there. A few minutes later my cheeseburger is done, and I'm ready to eat. I sit down and eagerly unwrapped my newly-wrapped food and set about choking down the barely edible fare. I briefly wondered why there were greasy fingerprints on the bun, but I thought better of tempting fate at that point.

As if my ordeal hasn't been harrowing enough, Lawrence snaps a picture of me in mid-gulp with his digital camera. (Look for the picture this Monday!) After wiping my hands and face with a fistful of napkins, we leave MacDonald's (forever, hopefully) and head back to the theater. We've already come to the conclusion that The Bridge is a pretty classy place, as far as movie theaters go. But we weren't prepared for what came next: the bathroom. Oh lordy, what a bathroom! Brushed aluminum sinks, marble counter tops, diffuse lighting, clean stalls and urinals and a bathroom attendant who provided us with paper towels so we could dry our hands. He didn't stick around for a tip, so I guess we weren't supposed to tip him. I just like to know how these things work, you know, proper etiquette and all.

We've got some time to kill before the show begins, so Lawrence and I flop down on some big, comfy chairs. We amuse each other briefly by taking pot-shots at the movie posters, and then it's time to wait in line. An impromptu line begins to form behind us, but this is quickly dismantled by festival volunteers when they call for Press and VIPs to form a new line. Hey, that's us! We quickly separated ourselves from the pass-less masses and formed a shorter, more attractive line. We're then promptly granted access to the theater, and Lawrence and I quickly walk inside to scope the joint out. We're the first ones in and as such have free reign over seating choices. In your face, everyone else! We selected seats near the rear and settled in.

The theater quickly fills up and we notice some familiar faces down by the entrance: Ray Murray, Andrew Preis, Lewis Tyce and, eventually, Travis Crawford, fresh from his appearance on Philly Live. (I have a videotape of said show, mwa ha ha!) Of course, I also notice one other attendee, whose very presence just blew my mind out the back of my skull. Our arch-nemesis was in our midst, and to make matters worse he plops down in the seat next to Lawrence. This is real-life horror, folks! The actual screening we came to see, Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance, took a back seat to the bizarre turn of events that we were watching unfold, and it took nerves of steel not to crack under the pressure.

After the film, which prompted the usual type of remarks ("You mean the CIA was in on it the whole time?"), we left The Bridge and entered a cold, rainy Friday night. We discussed the film as we scurried back to the El station on Market Street, then rode the rails back to the east side. I offended a crazy homeless man in the process; I thought he was asking for "ten cents", but he was only trying to sell me some "incense". Yeah, I'm a douchebag, I know. I snapped a picture of an angry Lawrence P. Raffel outside of the 2nd Street El station, then set off for my fabulous Society Hill apartment. I laughed at the assholes lined up outside Coyote Ugly, then sneered at a couple of sloppy drunk chicks walking up 3rd Street. Ah, to be home again.

Much like the 12th Philadelphia Film Festival, our cross-town odyssey has just begun. We're scheduled to see four more films at The Bridge: Cinema De Lux before the festival is over, meaning that we'll likely bring you future installments in the Turf Warriors series. Stay tuned, if only to see what sort of wacky subtitles we come up with for the next article. I can only imagine what type of sights await us at tomorrow's screening of Beyond Re-Animatior.