This New Year’s Day found me in dropped in Philadelphia, barricaded by yellow police twine and overwhelmed by 15,000 glittered, spangled, painted and drunken fancies, plus a clutch of nu-new-wave punks for a dash of color. The scene: 102nd Mummers Parade, dubbed the oldest and most sincere of folk festivals in the country. I’d been once before, back on a cheek-burning, frigid New Year’s Day in 1996 with my aunt and uncle. Twelve years later, it was a similar scene in milder weather with a different perspective. But no less fun.
As I claim to be a “sometime photographer”– and pictures tell this story best — here are some snaps from my prime locale between Lombard and South streets along Broad, just south of City Hall.