MOST GUYS WILL TELL YOU that they wish they could go slower. But a man's got to do what a man's got to do. What a man doesn't appreciate are highway signs telling him how fast to do it. Fifteen minutes -- I mean, miles per hour -- what are they dreaming?
What used to be called "Bumps" are now called what we always called them. At least in Whitpain Township, Montgomery County.
WELL BEFORE THE IOWA CAUCUSES vaulted Barack Obama into the lead in the Democratic presidential primaries, West Philadelphia artist Joe Tiberino completed this oil portrait of "Change" candidate Obama flanked by the three progressive Democratic and Civil Rights icons of the 1960's, John and Robert Kennedy and the Rev. Martin Luther King. Tiberino calls his painting, "Is He The One?"
As heroic as Obama looks in this portrait painted from photographes, I find the trio of ghosts behind him as unsettling as much as inspiring. It's one thing to associate the charismatic senator from Illinois with these heroes from an era of hope and despair during an era in America that started with Camelot and ended with My Lai. But you can't look at those faces without contemplating their tragic end, all identical , all killed by a bullet in the head fired by an assassin.
It's been 40 years since Bobby fell in Los Angeles during the presidential primary campaign in June 1968, just three months after Martin had been gunned down in Memphis, and not quite five years after JFK's murder in Dallas. And 40 years later the memory is fresh and painful for those of us who lived through that national nightmare.
"Is He The One?" can be seen at the Ellen Powell Tiberino Musuem at 3819 Hamilton Street in Powelton Village. For information and tour availability, call 215-386-3784.
Continue reading "Has anybody here seen my old friends. . .?" »
I WOULD TRUST ROCKY NATALE with my life, my fortune, and my sacred honor. Other than that I got no time for the guy.
He enjoys busting my balls too much. And the day he stops doing that is the day I'll worry.
Rocky Natale, my friend, is almost too Rocky to be true. A native son of South Philadelphia, born before the legend of Marciano, or Balboa, he fits his nickname like a dictionary definition: "ROCKY -- tough guy with a heart of gold; muscular, Italian-American, dark curly hair." Add to that description "ham-sized right arm biceps tattooed with 'Big Red 1' insignia. Vietnam. 1969."
In my life's journey, through no fault of his own, Rocky Natale has emerged as one of my heroes. I expect he's a hero to many people who Rocky looks up to. And by that I don't mean out of respect. I mean "looks up to" because Rocky is not a tall man. To call Rocky short is to call Italy boot-shaped.
But let's not deal in stereotypes.
"So this cannibal walks into a cannibal restaurant . ." (this is me trying to tell an ice-breaking ethnic joke to my hero Rocky's family members during his retirement party Friday night in Grays Ferry). . . "The menu reads, 'Boiled Irishman: $2.50, Sauteed Frenchman: $3.50. Marinated Italian: $11.50.' The cannibal calls over the waiter, 'Boiled Irishman two-fifty! Sauteed Frenchman, three-fifty! Marinated Italian. . . ELEVEN dollars and FIFTY cents.!' What's up with that?"
With great dignity, the cannibal waiter says, "Sir, have you ever tried to CLEAN an Italian?"
Rocky's people laugh and give me high fives. Clearly, they've cleaned Italians, not to mention the clocks of a few non-Italians, ifyaknowwhadImean? In the 1950's and '60's, Rocky grew up a greaseball among shamrocks in an Irish neighborhood in South Philly. His spirit, brawn and size made him ideal to crawl into Viet Cong tunnels alone with a flashlight. On the night Rocky slipped home from Vietnam an American soldier flipped out and blew the head off another American soldier sitting next to Rocky in the mess hall.
Try making sense of that forever image earned by coming home from a foreign war. But what Rocky refused to lose in Vietnam or South Philly or in 60 years of living on planet earth is the remarkable engine of human decency that beats like a bass drum inside his chest. He's almost too Rocky to be real. And he actually does say "Yo!"
But don't tell him I told you so.
YOU KNOW TIMES ARE TOUGH at the Philadelphia Inquirer when mistakes like this make it into headlines on section front pages. This is the headline that appeared on Thursday's Business section front page above the fold above business columnist Mike Armstrong's column. I figured that the term "ut-oh" must be some sort of business jargon I was unfamiliar with, but there was no explanation in the column. I called Armstrong to ask what "ut-oh" means and he said, "You got me. It's a typo."
SO FORGIVE ME FOR NOT NOTICING after all these years that specific detail in the upper right of the the fantastic mural on the south side of the fantastic building next to to the fantastic ApuVille MiniMart at Broad and Lombard looks like a hash pipe. Without the hash. Or smoke. But what is it?
Continue reading "It's not a hash pipe, it's, um, artistic" »
I'M WORRIED ABOUT McNULTY. Sure, I knew he was drinking again, but jeez. . .Did he have to become a serial killer to get his bosses' attention? If I have to explain the above, it will be too little too late and an injustice to you, Bunk, Bubbles, Marlo, Prop Joe, Snoop, David Simon, the City of Baltimore and the best show on television.
Continue reading "McNulty has seen the future. And it sucks." »
SIBLING RIVALRY IS A TERRIBLE THING TO WASTE. So self-described singer/comedian Stephen Lynch wrote what I consider to be an epic in addressing sibling rivalry. I took this photo at Dirty Franks not long ago. It seemed to fit the spirit of the song:
Continue reading "Have you ever met Jesus' brother Craig?" »
IF BOBBY KENNEDY WAS ALIVE and 42 years old and running for president the same way he did in 1968, he'd be trailing Dennis Kucinich in this year's Democratic presidential primary race. Kennedy didn't even officially announce his candidacy until March 16, four days after the New Hampshire primary in 1968. By mid-March this year, the winners of the major party nominations for president will be so last month's Super Duper Tuesday ago.
I HAVE SEEN THIS VIEW a thousand times, but never so spectacularly as Tuesday night when I stood in line around City Hall to meet the new mayor. The man on the horse is Gen. George B. McClellan, the two-time commander of the Army of the Potomac during the Civil War. He is famous for having done so little with the finest looking army ever assembled on American soil. Boy, could those Union soldiers parade.
Continue reading "How's this for the Grand Army of the Republic" »
I STOOD IN LINE more than two hours yesterday afternoon and evening to shake Mayor Michael Nutter's hand, and this is what I saw: City Hall in all its magnificence. I was not alone. In a receiving line of more than 4,000 people that snaked around the Hall from south to north, there wasn't much to do on a balmy January dusk except stare in wonder at the architectural soul of Philadelphia, this mountain of marble and granite among us, this defining structure that we see all the time but rarely, if ever, spend a couple of hours contemplating and appreciating.
LISTEN MY CHILDREN and you shall hear of men you've never heard of before. All flawed, none evil, some almost good. Each was mayor of Philadelphia in the not so long ago, and each shaped the city we walk today, Inauguration Day, of our next mayor.
Understand that Philadelphia was a Republican city for almost 100 years, from Abraham Lincoln to Dwight Eisenhower, during which time the Republicans stole as much as they could. By the turn-of-the 20th Century Philadelphia was labeled "Corrupt and Contented" in the famous words of another Lincoln, himself labled a muckraker.
AS FAR AS I KNOW, the Froggy Carr New Years Brigade is the only group in the Mummers Parade with its own police escort. That's escort, not honor guard. In fact, this was the first year that the four helmeted Highway Patrol officers on motorcycles that are assigned to make sure the Frogs arrive at City Hall more or less on time rode behind the wench brigade rather than in front. That way the brigade couldn't take a sudden left behind the cops and leave the police playing catch-the-Frogs.
AMERICA STARTS HERE Second Street in South Philadelphia is as good a place as any for America to start a new year. The Mummers Parade is so quintessentially American, both awesome and ridiculous, a cold weather Mardi Gras born in South Philadelphia and, more than a century later, still proudly marching up Broad Street to be judged by the swells in Center City. But the core of the Mummers experience is neighborhood. This photo is what the neighborhood on South Second Street looked like on Mummers morning 2007.
