July 31, 2007

Men, Men, men, men, men, men, men. . .

Men, Men, men, men, men, men, men. . .

Chess has a civilizing quality about it. Which is not to say it isn't cutthroat. But men deep in chess are in another place, a geometry of possibility on a squared playing field, among chess pieces with different powers, some of them fantastic. The knight, for instance. What's up with that move, one over, two up; two over, one up. Or down or over or left or right. If the knight was a superhero he'd be the one who could shoot around corners. He'd be Green Lantern.

What are the powers of pawns. Who are they supposed to be? Us, I guess. People. Not kings or queens or bishops or knights or castles. People. Pawns. The inevitable in between. But isn't it the pawns that win the battle more times than you can imagine? And can't pawns become queens if they want to be? If they win the race to the other end of the square. The winning pawn can become a bishop, a rook, a knight, anything but a king.

Come to think of it, I've never seen a chess player chose to be a pawn at the end of the race.

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July 30, 2007

The difference between men and women

The difference between men and women

Spider-Pig, Spider-Pig, doing whatever Spider-Pig does. . .now that I've planted Homer Simpson's singing voice in the back of your mind, we can proceed with today's column.

What is it about men and their pee-pees? There's a whole industry out there aimed at "male enhancement" which deals with that special moment when a man and his wife conjugate their verb. But what most guys really want is to be able to walk through a gym shower room without being mocked.

Mostly men are trained to ignore other men's pee pees. That's because we're only supposed to see them -- excuse me -- hear them, when there are maybe 20 men standing next to one another at a long line of urinals. Men don't look at other men except in the eyes when standing at a long line of urinals. The politeness of men at a long line of urinals is porceline. American Standard. We stare straight ahead while noticing anyone who isn't. It's a guy thing and it's very normal.

I CHALLENGE ANY GIRL OR WOMAN reading this to recall the last time she lined up with ten other women and peed against the same wall. With guys it happens, or could, every day. Turnpike rest stops, convention hotels, busy bars, seventh inning stretches, Sunday afternoon at the Linc. In crowded public places when a guy's gotta go, it seems there are at least ten other guys who gotta go at the same time.

Somehow men have grown accustomed to this ritualized lack of privacy. When I was a kid I discovered a magical place I couldn't have imagined if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. The girls' lavatory at my grade school. It was colored pink or salmon, and it smelled of fresh paint. The girls had a special room seperate from where the toilets were and on the wall there was a huge thing which I have since discovered has a name: mirror. Girls could look at themselves. Like it was a good thing.

Meanwhile in the boy's lavatory other boys could look at you while you went No.2 because there were no doors on the stalls. I'm sure I'm not the first man to tell you that that's how he learned to hold it in. Nor was I traumatized by it. I just remember it as being really weird and any kid desperate enough to take a dump got a peanut gallery of abuse.

I remember saying something upon discovering that the girls room had doors on the stalls and a mirror on the wall. It sounded like, "D'oh!"

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July 29, 2007

And the Winners of the "Very Open" Division. . .

And the Winners of the

YOU'VE GOT TO LOVE PLAYING in a championship final scheduled for noon during an all-day rugby torunament at the shore. Let the "serious" challengers beat each other up until six o'clock in the afternoon. In the "Very Open" division of the Surfside Sevens tournament at Stone Harbor hosted by the Philadelphia-Whitemarsh Rugby Club, the championship Saturday ended up being an intrasquad scrimmage among Philly-Whitemarsh old boys who wore different color T-shirts.

The Shockers (mostly Kutztown RFC alums) won it all.

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July 28, 2007

The Few. The Proud. The Guys Not in This Picture

The Few.  The Proud.  The Guys Not in This Picture

MAMMA, DON'T LET YOUR BABIES grow up to be ruggers. Don't let 'em hurt folks and drive hard in loose rucks. Make 'em be doctors and lawyers and such.

This is what several decades of rugby will get you. Man boobs, receding hair, artificial knees, a stomach that needs to be sucked in, and sunglasses because you're blind and therefore qualified to be a rugby referee. I remember when each one of these guys was young -- including me. Never did we suspect that 30, 35 years later we'd still be dragging our sorry butts to some sad outpost of pain to spend a day of happy misery among boys too young to know the terrible truth. Rugby isn't just a youthful indiscretion. It's a lifetime indiscretion.

Travellin' with kit bags and old faded jerseys to pitches unheard of with directions unknown. And if you don't understand him and he don't quit young, he'll probably tell you he feels right at home
.

The better part of two hundred young men, and formerly young men, gathered in Stone Harbor, N.J. today for the fourth annual Surfside Sevens rugby tournament sponsored by the Philadelphia-Whitemarsh Rugby Club. There's an old saying in rugby: Those who can, play. Those who can't, ref. Those who can't play or ref, write about it. I guess that last part would mean me. But I feel no embarrassment among this crew because these guys are old enough to remember my 15 minutes of magnificence as a rugby player.

OK, OK, itt took me almost 20 years to accumulate that total of 15 minutes, but hey, I earned them the old fashioned way. One injury at a time. Some of these guys might have been responsible for one or more of them since we played against each other more frequently than on the same side. That's Blackthorn-bred Joe Grohovsky on the left, and Harrisburg-escapee Michael Cook on the right, and the grin reaper next to me (I'm the one in red with the man boobs) is the guy I like to call "the snake from South Jersey" Pete Hesler. We go back a long ways. It's a rugby thing. The longer your around, you're glad to stand next to guys you once wanted to see flat on their backs.

Mamma, don't let your babies grow up to be ruggers. They'll never stay home and they're never alone alone, even with people they loathe.
Ruggers aren't easy to love and their harder to scold. You like them for something they do that is bold. You hate them for seeking it then asking to ice it and then pretending each bruise is real gold.

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July 27, 2007

Something I Seen Down The Street

Something I Seen Down The Street

YA NEVER KNOW. Sometimes you can be walking down the street in Center City look left and see something you've never seen before. Even though you've seen this street a hundred times. I love this view because of the pale-brick upper terraces of the Drake Hotel framing the glass dome of the Kimmel Center. That and the trees. The stop sign is nice. And the poles. Nice poles.

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July 26, 2007

Playboy Model in Dirty Franks. No kidding.

Playboy Model in Dirty Franks.  No kidding.

I'M NOT GOING TO NAME NAMES (can you see the name GARCELLE BEAUVAIS in red to the right in the photo? And below, can you see the word NAKED in purple? That's not who I'm talking about.) So this girl walks into Dirty Frank's bar and asks the bartender, "Can I see a Playboy?" And the bartender replies, "Funny, you should ask that because we were just talking about Playboy and how the girl on the cover looks a lot like you."

"My arms are too fat," said the girl after I showed her the picture I took of her posed next to the Playboy magazine cover, just to prove she isn't Garcelle Beauvais like everyone thinks she is. Her arms looked just fine to me. So I asked the spelling of her name, "Is that Brandi with an 'i'?" And she gave me such a look. "Do I look like a Brandy with an 'i'?" Hell no, I was just asking.

Ever since Sharday started spelling her name Sade, I've been confused.

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July 25, 2007

He Just Doesn't Get It

He Just Doesn't Get It

I KNOW ONE OF THE COPS who responded to the Abay's Wheeler Bar shooting in West Philadelphia where three people were killed and another was left critically wounded Saturday night. The bar was full of people at the time of the shooting, but by the time the cops arrived the only humans present had bullets in them. There were no witnesses and none have stepped forward. During that same weekend in the city of Philadelphia a total of 42 people were shot or stabbed. Seven of them died. By any standards, the "next great city" has some 'splainin' to do.

Tuesday evening when I saw one of the cops who responded to the bar shootings, he offered this explanation: "The brothers and sisters are running the city." He said it sadly. Without irony. Without disgust. He sounded nothing but tired. The brothers and sisters are running the city. And they're killing each like their job was murder.

Mayor John Street made those words famous a few years back while addressing a convention of African American municipal leaders from the East Coast. With almost Pentacostal joy, Street shouted, "The brothers and sisters are running this city. Oh yes!" His point being that Philadelphia government was dominated by qualified African Americans in leadership positions.

And perhaps this is why Street has cast a blind eye to the mayhem on the streets where most brothers and sisters live. How could they be running the city and killing each other at the same time. Don't they know how bad that makes him look?

Street has stood by his clueless Police Commissioner Sylvester Johnson like father knows best long after the house has burned down. These two will go slouching toward January together like some awful prophesy unable to stop itself. Atlas shrugged. And Street blamed the media.

When the mayor and the police commissioner turn palms up to the citizens they protect and claim there is nothing more they can do, it is a sign of End Times. Street's press conference outside Abay Wheeler's death bar Monday was a classic. Sounding like George Bush defending his failed attorney general, Mayor Street described Johnson as "a great police commissioner." The last paragraph of the Inquirer press conference story by Marcia Gelbert contained a quote from Street during an interview last week, "It's real easy for a person to say, 'Where's the mayor? . . .'But I say, 'Where are you?'"


Well, thank you John F. Kennedy. Ask not, what the police can do for you. Ask what you can do for the police.

I'd say, "You jitbag." but then Street would have to Google it.

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July 23, 2007

HAVE I GOT A BUSINESS OPPORTUNITY FOR YOU

WHO IS TOTO BOUBA and why is he writing to me? Perhaps you've received the same letter via the internet:

Sir,
My name Prince Toto Bouba I am from Luanda Norte in the Central district of Angola. I am contacting you for partnership in a very confidential financial transaction that involves the transfer and receivership of some deposit.
This deposit came from private mining of diamond in our region which represent the major deposit of diamonds in my country. Coupled with the rebels activities which are sponsored by illegitimate sales of diamonds to foreign companies.
Presently the Government forces are occupying our regions which has forced us the locals out of the country in search of lucrative business outside our shores for investment purposes. Your imediate response will be appreciated as time is of essence. Details will be given to you when you respond. Please include your direct phone number.
Sincerely,

Toto Bouba

I thought all these guys lived in Nigeria. If I saved every goofy scam letter I received from Africa, I could paper a jail cell. It's always under a different name, but this is the first time it's ever been sent by someone with a thoroughly American name. Gee, Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore.

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July 22, 2007

Waiting For Mister Softee

Waiting For Mister Softee

THE SOUND OF SUMMER in many Philadelphia neighborhoods is dominated by two competing ice cream truck jingles, one more obnoxious than the other. Both sound a lot like this: "dee-DEE dee-DEEdily Dee dee-dee" over and over and over again. There are actual lyrics to these tinkly tunes, the first being, "The creamiest dreamiest soft ice cream is made by Mr. Softee." and the second being, "Around around the merry-go-round the monkey chased the weasel."

I believe it is fair to say that the sound of these dueling ice cream trucks has something to do with the city's escalating murder rate. I know how homicidal I feel after the hundredth time of hearing the Mr. Softee theme in a battle of the bands with Pop Goes the Weasel. Of course, we live in prime ice cream truck territory, just off Clark Park in West Philadelphia, where the "dee-DEE dee-DEEdily" tintinabulations of ever-returning jingle trucks is as soothing as the sound of whooping Souix warriors circling a wagon train.

And so it was last night when the Philadelphia Orchestra performed a free concert in the natural bowl in Clark Park under flawless skies on a picture perfect summer night that made me fall in love with Philadelphia all over again. Who ARE these people? The crowd looked like a casting call by Noah -- there was one of everything, from brown bearded lesbiens eating dipped chocolate ice cream cones to crusty dreadlocked anarchists nodding to the classics.

On a huge stage before us sat the white-clad members of a world-class symphony orchestra making music under the baton of a Bulgarian conductor who started the concert with the Star Spangled Banner and ended with America, America as an encore with everyone standing and singing along and dry eyes hard to come by. Conductor Rossen Milanov, wearing a jaunty straw hat, led the Philadelphians through a repetoir that included Bizet's Carmen, Ravel's Bolero and my favorite symphony since childhood, Capriccio Espanol by Rimsky-Korsakov.

And there while enjoying the perfection of the evening, during a soft strings interlude before the rousing finale, the maestro's wagon train came under assault. "Dee-DEE dee DEEdily Dee dee-dee." It was a terrortist attack by Mr. Softee.

Everyone winced, groaned and turned around glaring. But Mr. Softee was oblivious. Finally I did what everyone wanted to. I got up from my blanket, hurried to the driver's window and shouted these exact words, almost, "Shut the TRUCK up!" Mr. Softee apologized and killed the jingle. And when I returned in triumph and told the story to my blanket mates, a bald fellow on the blanket in front of us turned around and asked me to please be quiet. He couldn't hear the music.

God, I love this city.

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July 20, 2007

The Philadelphia Orchestra Comes to My Park

The Philadelphia Orchestra Comes to My Park

IT TAKES TEAMWORK to put on an open-air concert by the Philadelphia Orchestra. Before the oboes start oboeing, before the timpani players tintinambulate, before the maestro drops his baton, two days worth of construction goes on to build a stage worth of the musicians and their million dollars-worth of instruments.

This was the scene yesterday afternoon in the natural bowl of Clark Park in West Philadelphia where this team of stage assemblers raised the final aluminum tower to support the roof that will protect the orchestra during Saturday night's free concert just down the street from our house (and wasn't it sweet of them to name the park after me 80 years before we moved there?).

· · ·
This is the second of the Philadelphia Orchestra's neighborhood concert series this summer, and a return visit by the orchestra to what the corporate sponsors describe as "University City’s beloved community greenspace" which hosts music festivals, Shakespeare performances and outdoor movies during the summer and autumn. Saturday night's concert will feature conductor Rossen Milanov leading the fabulous Philadelphians in a repetoir feauring Chabrier’s España, Bizet’s Suite No. 2, from Carmen, and my personal favorite, Rimsky-Korsakov’s Capriccio espagnol, which you usually find on the flip side of Schaherazade. Also on the playbill is Marquez’s Danzon, Barber’s Suite from Souvenirs, and Ravel’s Bolero.

Not a bad night under the stars. The show starts at seven. Come early and bring a blanket to grab a good spot.

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July 19, 2007

Three Ninja Turtles and Ellen

Three Ninja Turtles and Ellen

YOU COULDN'T MAKE UP THE TIBERINO FAMILY. Oh, sure, you could try. But in the end you'd probably sound like an old Cheech and Chong promo from the 70's which declared them to be, "The world's only Mexican Chinese American comedy team in the world, man." If you tried to describe the Tiberino family merely as the sum of its parts, you'd be able to say, in fairness, that they are "The world's only devout Catholic Muslim biracial narcoleptic artist colony in West Philadelphia with nice knockers in the world, man."

That's not fair. Pater familias Joe Tiberino is not narcoleptic. But he does seem to fall asleep suddenly and with regularlity in both public and private places where wine is served. Joe Tiberino, who is not in the photo above -- and not because he was napping! -- is the artistic Vito Corleone of this genetic "thing of theirs," this need to make art. This need to paint and draw and sculpt and bake art so much that their home in West Philadelphia looks like something that Hansel and Gretel stumbled upon in the forest, a gingerbread house built entirely of human figures from floor to rooftop. And that's just the outside.

OK, if you were going to make up names for the artist sons of an artist father named Tiberino, you might go with names as classically American as, say, Joe. You might. Joe and his artist wife , the late Ellen Powell Tiberino, did not. He was white. She was black. But both were intensely Catholic. She, in fact, converted to Catholicism at the age of 13 after a Baptist childhood. Which may or may not have had anything to do the names given to the three Tiberino boys: Leonardo, Raphael, and Gabriel.

The youngest, Gabe (right) just turned 23, which means he probably played with Donatello, Michaelangelo and the other Mutant Ninja Turtle action figures as a kid and never gave the names a second thought. The middle son, Leonardo (left), reacted to his Renaissance Florentine namesake, who painted both the Sistine Chapel and the Mona Lisa, by becoming a Muslim. Note Leo's inscrutible smile.

Raphael Tiberino, the eldest, reacted by growing larger than his brothers and developing a fondness for hoisting sometimes willing human beings of all sizes into the air, and sometimes over his head. Women seem to react to this better than men. I've got the pictures to prove it. (And, yes. Aaron, I'm talking about you. You wuss.)

Which brings us to Ellen. (Knock, knock. Who's there? No one, I just didn't know how to bring up the knockers.) After naming sons Raphael and Leonardo, more pretentious artist parents might have named their first born daughter after a famous American female artist, a Philadelphian perhaps, say, Mary Cassat Tiberino. In the end, perhaps, family pride will prove Ellen Tiberino's name to be the most famous. Her late mother's work hangs in the Philadelphia Museum of Art where Ellen Powell Tiberino is considered one of the best 20th Century American black female artists. In fact, the Ellen Powell Tiberino Museum of American Art at the aforementioned gingerbread art house on Hamilton Street in Powellton Village, is known simply as "the Ellen."

Which has nothing to do with the photograph above taken during the opening of The Family Tiberino: A Legacy in Art running through the end of August at the Sande Webster Gallery at 2006 Walnut Street in Center City, and which features pieces by all of the aforementioned Tiberino family artists. Joe Tiberino is not entirely absent from the photo. His images of black heroesfill the canvas on the wall behind his children. In fact, Joe is the mustacioed white guy with the old fashioned movie camera standing to the right of Spike Lee just above Gabe's head.

My original title for this picture was "Gotcha!" because it is the only time I have seen all the Tiberino children laughing at the same time. Not to name names (Ellen), some non-Rennaissance-named Tiberinos smile more than others. But then the more I looked at the photo of these Philadelphia artists, the more another title struck me as being more appropriate:

"Ain't no stopping us now."

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July 16, 2007

Are we not phillies fans?

Are we not phillies fans?

All I knew about the 1961 movie The Misfits is that Clark Gable dies at the end. Literally. It was his last movie. He died a week after filming ended, because, some say, he insisted at the age of 59 on doing his own stunts, which included being dragged by wild horses.

The Misfits was also Marilyn Monroe's last movie, although it took her another year and a half to die in an appalling Anna Nicole Smith public way. The Misfits also featured a haunting performance by Montgomery Clift, another Hollywood star destined for premature burial a few years later at the age of 45. In its own way The Misfits was about losers and I watched it for the first time on Channel 12 early yesterday morning on the day that the Phillies would either sweep the World Champion St. Louis Cardinals, or lose for the ten thousandth time.

Misfits. Haven't Phillies fans always been misfits in a world of Yankee-loving front runners. Cardinals fans could wear a World Series championship ring on every finger of both hands. Yankee fans would have to take off their shoes and socks and still have six championhship rings left over.

Phillies fans have exactly one and on that ring we swore to love the Phillies all the days of our lives. Phillies fans didn't take a wedding vow so much as an oath of poverty, chastity and obedience. As I watched The Misfits I started keeping track of dialogue that applied to Phillies fans. "I can't make a landing and I can't get up to God," Clark Gable says at one point. Earlier, speaking of cowboys, but who could have been wearing red pinstripes, Gable says, "We're all good for nothing. But it's better than wages."

Thelma Ritter says, "The slogan here is 'Anything Goes. . .Just Don't Complain When It Went." About nervous people, Eli Wallach says, "If it wasn't for the nervous people in the world, we'd all be eating each other." During a rodeo, when told what makes a bucking bronco buck (a belt that "holds them where they don't like it") Marilyn Monroe says, "It isn't fair." To which Wallach replies, "You wouldn't have a rodeo, otherwise."

Perhaps imagining pre-season predictions, Monroe says, "Maybe you shouldn't believe what people say. It's unfair to them." Perhaps referring to a Charlie Manual post game press conference, Gable says, "Did you ever get to know a man better by asking him questions?" Speaking, no doubt, of the inconsolable nature of Phillies fans, Monroe says, "You could blow up the world and all you'd feel is sorry for yourself."

Who knew The Misfits was a baseball movie?

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July 13, 2007

Come and get me coppers!

Come and get me coppers!

SAY HI TO ONE OF THOSE DARING YOUNG MEN who scare the bejabbers out of you when they go screaming by at 80-miles-an-hour while you're walking or driving in South Philadelphia. They are as dependable as lightning bugs, rising from their secret garages late each afternoon to drag race on Gray Ferry Avenue in complete defiance of the police.

I saw four of these guys -- three on motorcycles and one on a four-wheeler like this one -- rev up their engines at the traffic light at 34th and Grays Ferry and pop wheelies across the intersection and all the way up the Grays Ferry Avenue Bridge. All this in front of a cop stopped at the same intersection. I found out that Philadelphia police have a "don't chase" policy when it comes to knuckleheads like this -- some of them as young as 11 -- because a chase inevitably ends up with the kid crashing and the familly suing the police for their child's injury or death. What cops will do is plan traps where they can corral this kids like cowboys roping horses in a box canyon.

One time I was talking to a young fellow around 28th and Reed Sts. when a kid on a mini-bike went flying through the stop sign at 40 miles-per-hour. "You know why the cops don't chase them?" The kid answered, "Yeah, 'cause they'll get sued." I asked him if he knew anybody who had been killed on a bike and he replied. "Two. Last year." One of them was a good friend, he said. "What happened?" I asked. And without a trace of irony, the kid replied,"A trolley hit him."

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July 08, 2007

And they still. . .Oh, get over it!

And they still. . .Oh, get over it!

Across the river a 12 year old boy with $500 in his pockets was shot dead with an assault rifle while sitting inside a 1994 Oldmobile outside a Camden housing project. Both the boy's 28-year-old mother and his grandmother thought the 12 year old was sleeping at the other's house that night. His mother had an explanation for the boy having $500 in cash in his pockets. It was money the grandmother had saved in a cookie jar that the boy had taken to buy her a birthday present. Somehow that story makes this whole business of the Phillies being the first major league franchise to lose 10,000 games seem like a puny tale of woe.

The only similarity, on a metaphoric level, is that Phillies fans get to watch a loved one die over and over, day by day, year by year, decade by decade. By adulthood every lifelong baseball fan has suffered a thousand small deaths when his team loses; the Phillies are simply the first franchise to roll that victory apnea over into five figures. As my friend Steve Lopez once observed when he was writing a newspaper column in Philadelphia, "Some teams flirt with losing. The Phillies have sex with it." Take the 1930 Phillies - please! In that year the Phillies scored more runs than any other team in the National League and finished 40 games out of first place. That year the Phillies led by MVP Chuck Klein (170 RBI, .687 slugging percentage) set club records for hits (1,783) runs (944), doubles (345) and total bases (2,594) and still finished last with a record of 52 wins and 102 losses. In 1930, Phillies pitchers gave up a major league record 1,193 runs, roughly one run more per game than the seven runs the Phillies bats averaged.

In those days the Phillies played in Baker Bowl at 15th and Huntingdon in North Philadelphia. On the left field wall there was a huge advertisement for deodorant soap in bold letters that declared, "THE PHILLIES USE LIFEBOUY." One night a fan snuck in and painted a message underneath, "AND THEY STILL STINK." I wasn't there, of course, but I know that story because it's in my DNA as a Phillies fan, the same way the names Chico Ruiz and Manny Motta cause me to wince involuntarily. In every Phillies fan's heart there is a secret joy, the Germans have a word for it, schadenfreud. Shameful glee at another's misfortune. It is the Phillies fan's final defence against ultimate major league baseball humiliation.

At least we're not Cubs fans.

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July 05, 2007

E pluribus Punxsutawney

E pluribus Punxsutawney

MEET THE ORIGINAL ONE DOLLAR PHIL who stands outside a bank parking lot in downtown Punsutawney, Pa., home of Punxsutawney Phil, the prognosticating groundhog who announces the coming of spring every year on Feb. 2. Phil, who's Pennsylvania Lottery cousin Gus describes himself as the "second-most famous groundhog" in the Keystone State, has become a year-round industry in this charming Jefferson County borough about 80 miles northeast of Pittsburgh.

This ceramic plaster statue is one of 33 around town that has been has been individually adopted by local merchants (this one by the local bank, of course) to promote the groundhog's importance to Punxsutawney's identity. (more to come)

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July 03, 2007

Happy birthday America, from Punxsutawney

Happy birthday America, from Punxsutawney

AMERICA LIVES IN THE HEARTS of billions around the world. Even groundhogs from Western Pennsylvania. During our tour of Pennsylvania, my daughter Molly and I visited Punxsutawney. This is one of the 33 Punxsutawney Phil statues that populate this Jefferson County seat.

More to come. Lots more.

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July 01, 2007

Nerdly McBlingbling Gets His Thingthing

Nerdly McBlingbling Gets His Thingthing

Earth to Street! Earth to Street! Come in, Street! For crying out loud, John, answer your freakin' iPhone, will you? You went through all that trouble, discomfort and ultimately, public humiliation, just to be the first one on your block -- or the first mayor in America -- to own the latest geek magnet created by Steve Jobs, the least you could do is answer the damn thing when it rings.

That is, if it does ring. Knowing what little I know about John Street after watching him as a public figure since the days when he was defending his brother Milton's right plant a vending truck in concrete on the southeast corner of Montgomery Avenue at 13th Street on the Temple University campus in 1972, I can only imagine what the ring tone on Hizzhonor's iPhone would be. Presumably to get his attention Street's mobile phone would require a 500 volt electric shock. Either that or the theme from Star Trek.

We are not alone, you and I, in wondering how cuckoo John Street has been all along if he is capable of choosing to inauguate his final six months as mayor of Philadelphia by camping out in a lawn chair at 3:30 a.m. in order to buy the newest techno-gadget that wouldn't go on sale for another 14 hours and 30 minutes. What was he thinking? we all asked ourselves.

Who is this guy? visitors from out-of-state arriving for Philadelphia's weeklong Fourth of July celebration must have asked when they saw the TV and newspaper images of the mayor camped on a city sidewalk like some Dungeons and Dragons freak outside a Sci-fi Con.

Earth to Street! This didn't make you look like a man of the people. This didn't make you look mayoral. This made you look like Nerdly McBlingbling, a man with all his priotities in an alternate universe.

In a city where kids die over new sneakers and the latest sports team jackets, the sight of a mayor voting with his seat outside the AT&T store selling the latest must-have $600 gizmo sends a message. I gots to have it. I gots to have it now.

And John Street's mystification that the media would make such a fuss about his choice to a). sit outside a store for hours on a weekday, and/or b). have a city paid cop take his place in line, shows how little he has learned about a). the news media, and/or b). being mayor of Philadelphia.

Not since Frank Rizzo accepted the Daily News challenge of taking a lie detector test, has a sitting mayor invited such unnecessary ridicule. Maybe it played well in John Street's alternate universe, but on the streets of Philadelphia it looked STOOPID!

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