No this isn't an ode to the Rolling Stones (though we do hear the bass line from that song in our head when we're walking down Market Street in the summertime). This is an ode to our love, Philadelphia. We are counting the hours until we get back to your edgy goodness.

Unlike our other trips to Vegas, this one sucks. Perhaps it is because we are travelling alone and aren't in the mood to make any temporary friends, or maybe it's because we are sorely in need of some downtime and therefore find the constant tinkling of slot machines and the onslaught of neon flashing lights extremely annoying.

But mainly, it's because we miss Philadelphia. And everything in Vegas seems to remind us of the one we left behind.

We have tried to forget about you. We took a book to the pool. Our current obsession with John Coltrane led us to a particular bio called Ascension. In it, the author touches on Coltrane's ties to Philadelphia, along with his support of Philadelphian musicians such as drummer Philly Joe Jones. Try as we might, we couldn't escape you.

We thought maybe dinner would help, so we had sushi at Japonais. Chatting with the executive chef in between sips of miso soup, we found ourselves involved in a conversation about your restaurant scene. Chef Gene shared his thoughts about Stephen Starr's enterprise and asked us ours, which amounted to, "We don't frequent his restaurants because we'd rather buy shoes than really expensive dinners. Plus, there's the douchebag factor. Next time you're in Philly, don't go back to Buddakhan. Try Zento."

The next day we figured retail therapy might help us feel better. We went shopping, but everything looked so generic that we yearned for the originality of shops like Smak Parlour and Grasshopper. And it killed us that in all the malls, with their Gucci this and Prada that, no one thought to include an effing music store. We would've committed random unsavory acts for five minutes inside Repo.

All that shopping made us hungry, and we wanted nothing more than to sit outside and eat a light lunch. Unfortunately, the only alfresco dining we saw was the fakeass Parisian cafe at the Paris casino. Blech. We were sorely in need of one of your restaurants with outdoor seating. What we wouldn't have given for a table outside of Society Hill with a pint of Strongbow, a plate of scully fries, and a clear view of that hot Irish bartender's ass.

We are bolting this meth-laced, hyperactive excuse for a city first thing tomorrow morning. And we can't wait to get home.

Image credit: Flickr user damonabnormal