Trends Reviews and Recaps

The annual Mummers Parade will be held, as usual, weather permitting, in Philadelphia on Thursday, January 1. This year the parade will be on Broad Street, an attempt to recapture some of the spirit of the past and better connecting the event to its South Philly roots.

That’s not enough for Philadelphia Daily News columnist Ronnie Polaneczky (“Revive the Vibe of Mayhem at Parade,” December 29).

Ronnie wants mayhem. Mayhem and beer. Free-flowing beer for everyone. No public restrooms along Broad Street? Who cares? Polaneczky wants everybody to get all rowdy and stuff. And head for the nearest alley when nature calls, as it inevitably does under such conditions: over and over and over again.

She writes:

[W]e ought to figure out how to revive the vibe of mayhem that used to flow like beer along the Mummers parade route.

I know -- it was usually the beer that caused the mayhem. Still, the possibility of mayhem breaking out at any moment can do wonders for a parade.

Like make people want to attend it.

Polaneczky’s recommendation is juvenile and irresponsible, not half as cute as she thinks it is.

And she obviously doesn’t live near Broad Street.

Bulldogs are the best of all breeds, aren’t they?

If you doubt that, take a jaunt over to the New York Times web site and catch the photograph accompanying “It’s a Long New Year’s Eve That Starts at Thanksgiving.”

A beautiful specimen.

And Mildred, who has been known to partake of a drop of white wine or beer now and then, agrees.

My nephew John, not yet known by the royalist appellation “John the Lesser,” performed his good deed on the night before Christmas.

His father reports:

On Christmas Eve John filled up a box with toys he no longer plays with, and left a note to Santa indicating that if Santa knew any boys or girls who might like the toys he should take them and give them away.

Where does that come from?

It comes from exceptional parenting.

An imaginary but all too real dialogue:

Oh my God! Did you read that? Jane Doe is leaving Channel 18’s 4 o’clock news broadcast. She’s heading to Cincinnati!

Who?

Who cares?

Nobody!

I like living in a two-newspaper town, even if those two newspapers share not only the same building, the same printing presses, and the same owner, Knight-Ridder Co.

The Philadelphia Inquirer and the Philadelphia Daily News are clearly separate organisms. And that’s good for both papers. And for readers. (Even I, an intellectual snob, know plenty of people who read the Daily News religiously who would never pick up the Inquirer if Knight-Ridder were to shut the tabloid.)

Nonetheless, there are times when coverage of the same stories by two papers is too much. It’s partly my fault for not picking one paper over the other, but the over-coverage of inside media baseball in Philadelphia by the Inquirer and the PDN makes me want to scream.

Our second-rated weatherman is leaving Philly for Milwaukee! You’re kidding. The guy with the hair? No, no, not him. The 5 o’clock guy. . . . One of Philadelphia’s only 18 minority newscasters is off to Cleveland! But a half-Mexican woman is headed here from Houston. And she’s gorgeous! . . . D’jou hear that blond guy from that radio station way up on the AM dial? The one who dated that lifestyles reporter from Channel 2? He’s moving to New Orleans! No way! Way!

Look, people, the goings here and goings there of local media “news personalities” is of no interest whatsoever to me nor to anyone I know.

To make matters worse, such inane commentary isn’t limited to, say, Gail Shister’s regular Inquirer column. No, you force-feed us these insipid and tedious reports not only through Shister, but also through Michael Klein’s “INQlings” column in the Inquirer and Stu Bykovsky and Howard Gensler’s columns in the PDN.

Enough, already. Your readers know everything they want or need to know about Big Local Media Jane and Joe, if that were anything at all.

Ignorant as I am of popular culture and the people who populate and patronize it, I was a bit out of my element when I read “Norristown’s Bello Plays it ‘Cooler’ Than Usual” in Monday’s Philadelphia Daily News.

I don’t know who Maria Bello is, and frankly, I don’t care. What I do know from reading reporter Laura Randall’s article is that Bello, at least as expressed through the interview with the PDN, is nothing more than a walking pile of clichés.

Discussing her latest role, that of a “down-and-out casino cocktail waitress” -- Is there any other kind? -- in a movie called “The Cooler,” Bello tells Randall, “As soon as I read the script I knew I had to play Natalie. You rarely read a woman’s role that has that sort of full character to it,” repeating one of Hollywood’s favorite myths.

The heretofore unknown, at least around this operation, Bello is angry that all the world will not see “a glimpse” of her pubic hair, that 1.5-second element deleted from the final cut in order for the film to secure an “R” rating from the Motion Picture Association of America (MPAA).

Bello dribbles:

It doesn't make me angry at the MPAA. They have certain guidelines they adhere to. The problem is with the American public and what they deem as irresponsible for kids to see. We’re so puritanical in this country the way that we view sexuality, while violence is just a matter of fact.

Gosh, Maria, thanks. Never heard that before.

It’s that time of year. Christmas. The “holiday season.”

Hands are outstretched. Hands you haven’t seen all year -- and yes, I’m talking to you, Mr. or Ms. Newspaper Delivery Person, you who cannot be relied upon to arrive here every day -- are asking for a year-end “gratuity” or a “gesture of appreciation.”

In other words, a tip. In cash, which as Yogi Berra once said, is as good as real money.

This is not a bad thing. It’s not evil, nor is it nefarious or unjustified. But here and there at least, it’s just a little out of control.

In my first building in New York we were practically extorted for a Christmas tip by a motley collection of “doormen” and “porters,” men who only arose from their seats when their legs became cramped.

An almost-threatening note was distributed in early December detailing the required customary gratuity, based on numerous factors including the number of residents in each unit and certain imaginary “special services” that may have been provided during the year. And they took names. If one were to decline to contribute, they would know about it. No big deal considering these guys never once opened the door, but a matter of consequence when it came to a backed-up sink.

At my second building in New York, where the doormen would do anything for you -- including hauling boxes of books your ex practically dumped on the sidewalk, holding his hand out the whole time for still more cash -- a similar notice was posted near the elevators. At that building, famed for its out-front topiary, I gladly distributed monies at Christmas. When you own two bulldogs, which I did at the time, and said doormen, on request, will take your bulldogs for a walk (my maid did it too), you do things like that.

Now I see that at my present residence, in which there are, I’m guessing, roughly 100 apartments, a “tip box” has been placed at the front desk, where the door-people/security guards sit.

That’s new this year.

I’m not sure what I will or can do for them. But I appreciate the gesture.

It’s subtle. Suggestive, even, rather than demanding. So different from New York. So very Philadelphia.

And that’s a good thing.

I’ve been to Savannah. Savannah, Georgia.

No, not recently, so, no, I haven’t seen Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck cruising town inconspicuously in their lime green SUV. (Nude, shirtless. That’s me trolling for hits, not they seeking even more attention.)

But I’ve been there.

And based on just that one visit I can say with confidence that the women in Savannah are, or at least there are women in Savannah who are, better looking than this one. And less dangerous, too.

I recently sent out a modest gift package for which three weeks later I received a perfunctory thank-you note, a perfunctory and, frankly, rather rude thank-you note.

“I have so much of this stuff,” I was told, in a note that included, if you can believe it, the word “trinkets.”

I’m so sorry to have bothered you.

I apologize for cluttering your mailbox.

If you don’t like the gifts or can’t use them, send them back.

[Ed.: No more calls. We have a winner! L.M. of Riverdale, N.Y.]

What is Mildred, anyway?

Sure, she’s a bulldog, an English bulldog to be more specific, but what is she exactly? What is she like in, uh, person?

I’ve long described Mildred, based on her appearance, personality, and behavior, as being part dog, part cat, part rabbit, part monkey, part pig, part seal, part hippo, part bear (especially polar bear), part tick, and part human.

Today I received a card from a friend featuring a photograph of a penguin.

The resemblance is, in a word, eerie.

Hmm . . . Nurses strike. Hospital obstinate in talks. Strike goes in to fifth week. The nurses’ union is scheduled to vote today on a new contract. Owner announces hospital will close March 1.

A thousand jobs down the toilet.

Conspiracy or par for the course?

Who says workers -- even professionals -- don’t need unions anymore?

Only those dimwits who will buy the company line, courtesy in this case of Tenet Healthcare Corp., that it’s the nurses’ fault.

It may not have been intentional, but the second clause (sorry for the pun) in this sentence, from “A Christmas Crime in the City,” by Beth Gillin of the Philadelphia Inquirer, includes a pretty clever double entendre:

It saddens us to report that Santa’s been zapped from a cherished Philadelphia holiday ritual -- the annual light show at the landmark Center City department store occupied since 1997 by Lord & Taylor.

Now, I understand that the demise of Wanamaker’s was hard for some Philadelphians to take, but really, occupied territory?

Overheard, earlier this afternoon, on South 12th Street, Philadelphia, after a beautiful silver sports car had pulled along the curb:

Female Pedestrian No. 1: Would you just step back? You are practically riding on that man’s car!

Female Pedestrian No. 2: I know I am! You think I’m gonna’ let a car like that go by without finding out who’s behind the wheel? Or at least what he looks like?

The executive director of the Barnes Foundation earlier this week revealed that several items from its collection and offices, including “a work by Henri Matisse” and a grand piano, were “missing.”

Today the Philadelphia Inquirer reports the instrument wasn’t really missing at all. (“Missing Piano Turns Up in Ardmore,” by Peter Dobrin.)

It turns out an Ardmore, Pa., couple purchased the piano from the Barnes Foundation seven years ago through a classified ad placed in the Main Line Times, and at a bargain price too.

So, which is worse? That the Barnes considered the piano to be “missing” or that the foundation didn’t know it had sold the instrument in the first place? Tough call.

This is a real headline from a real newspaper: “Boxing-gloved Gangs Attack Pedestrians.”

The article, by Regina Medina, who gets points just for having that name, appeared in Tuesday’s Philadelphia Daily News.

The gangs, working in groups of five to 15, attack pedestrians and bikers without warning.

Clad in black-hooded sweatshirts and black skullcaps, they hunt down victims in the dark, then beat them mercilessly, shouting “Get him!” and “you ain’t goin’ nowhere!”

In at least one case, they stabbed a young man with a knife. In another, they shot an advertising salesman who stopped to ask for directions. They’re [sic] motive is uncertain.

But it’s the boxing gloves that give these attacks an added bizarre twist.

“I’ve never seen that before -- using boxing gloves to beat up people,” said Lt. Walter Bell, head of Special Investigations in South Detectives.

Detective Larry McKnight, one of the lead investigators, says he’s seen a lot in his 30 years as a cop. “This is a first for me.”

Police say they believe seven incidents, all in South Philadelphia, are linked to one or more gangs that have been randomly attacking people near the Courtyard at the Riverview, also known as the “Tower,” a residential area just south of Queen Village.

I’m really not trying to make light of this. But it’s strange, isn’t it?

People who obsess about the food they eat are irritating. People who obsess about the food others eat are contemptible.

With those observations in mind, I’m trying to decide who’s more annoying: the “Fat! Fat! Oh my God, do you know how much fat is in that? There must be at least 12 grams of fat in there!” people of the `90s or the “Carbs! Carbs! Oh my God, do you know how many carbs are in that? There must be at least 30 grams of carbs in there!” people of the `00s.

It’s a close call, but I think the anti-carbohydrate freaks are winning. (I like saying the full word -- carbohydrates -- around these types. They get visibly antsy and disdainful, realizing they’re in the company of one who is not “a true believer.”)

About six or seven years ago, when this craze was a mere fad, I worked with a woman who, I swear, counted the number of grapes and peanuts she included in her lunch. Little did I know what we were in for.

On a related note, let me add the sidewalks in many parts of Philadelphia are narrow, this being an old city and all, and are made even more narrow, or more narrowly passable, when large portions are covered with ice, as they are on this 25-degree morning.

If you and your friends want to jog -- excuse me, go running -- on these narrow sidewalks under such conditions, and insist upon doing so three abreast, I feel pretty confident I’m not the one who is obligated to yield the right of way. (And to the joggers from this morning, don’t worry, my arm doesn’t hurt too much, thanks for asking. Oh, wait, you didn’t ask. Never mind.)

That’s all. Tipping the scales at a healthy 132 pounds today (BMI=19.5), I’m signing off with the message, “Moderation in everything.”

For those who “never understood the difference between blogs and those awful personal web pages from the `90s” (see, for example, the comments on “Co-opting the Future,” by John C. Dvorak, in PC Magazine, where Dvorak himself reveals he too doesn’t understand much about weblogs), this post will probably further confuse their already feeble and addled minds.

Why? Because it’s one of my wholly random and completely personal rants that I just want to get off my chest and make part of the public record, for that tiny slice of the public that might, just might, include my landlord.

I like where I live. Not just Philadelphia, but my apartment building. The location is perfect, for one thing, and it’s a pretty cool building, though the static, awkward, and uninteresting lay-out of my apartment would send any self-respecting feng shui practitioner into a dispiriting but still somehow satisfyingly harmonious meltdown.

The building used to be a factory where they once manufactured . . . No, I’d better not say, since doing so might make my location too easily identifiable, and some of the e-mail I get from cranky Rittenhouse readers kind of scares me.

Anyway, among the apartment’s advantages are 10-foot ceilings and 6-foot windows, which are nice when the weather is sunny and fair. But these same windows leak like proverbial sieves or, even worse, like White House stage manager Karl Rove.

Meanwhile, the building’s hallways are maintained during the winter at a temperature I would estimate at a brisk 45 degrees, yet another source of cold air that makes its way inside my apartment through a small gap under the front door.

As a result, on a day like today it’s freezing in here. Not only is the air cold, but the floor, even with its horrible wall-to-wall carpeting (a real selling point in the opinion of the building’s management but correctly termed “an abomination” by blogger Jane Finch), is cold. My hands are cold. My feet are cold. Shoes left on the floor are particularly cold. Everything I touch is cold.

And due to the otherwise-admired high ceilings, to get the place warm I have to turn the heat from “low” to “high,” an act that in and of itself sparks violent wind shears that really don’t help matters any.

I want to stay here -- in Philadelphia and in this building -- but I’ll tell you, I know already that the electric bills are going to kill me, again, this winter.

I don’t know how they do it, but colleges and their alumni associations always find you, even after you’ve managed to escape their clutches for several years. It’s almost creepy, as if they asked around until they found someone who knows someone who knows you or something.

This certainly has been true of the two universities I attended and the affiliated alumni associations to which I am supposed to, or at least could, belong but don’t: the University at Albany and the University of Virginia. Friends and family have made similar observations with respect to their own schools.

Once they find you again, and they will -- both schools found me quite recently after a long hiatus, the simultaneous reconnection itself sparking suspicion -- prepare yourself for the inundation at the mailbox. Just yesterday, in fact, I received two different mailings from Albany and one from Virginia, the latter coming close on the heels of the association’s magazine, which arrived here late last week.

It’s like they want to catch up really fast. Not “catch up” in a “Hey, what’s up with the disappearing act? We were worried about you. What’s new in your life?” sort of way, but rather in a “Hey, reach for your checkbook and give until it hurts, buddy” kind of way.

They always want -- and ask for -- money, whether it’s the annual campaign, the centennial campaign, the bicentennial campaign, the 21st century campaign, the college campaign, the president’s campaign, the alumni campaign, the class campaign, the athletics campaign, or whatever. And for what? Practically anything, it seems: expanding the library, constructing a new field house, upgrading the performing arts center, installing wireless internet connections in every dorm room, building cooler digs for the alumni association staff, the list goes on.

Enough already. Save it, people. Check back when I’ve had the opportunity to prove, yet again, that the degrees I earned were worth the time, effort, and, well, money.

When it comes to panhandlers’ requests, I finally can say I’ve heard it all.

Over the years I’ve been asked for spare change generally, of course, but also more specifically for a dime (that was a long time ago), a quarter (not quite so long ago), 50 cents, a dollar, 10 dollars, even 20 dollars.

Two dollars is a frequent request in Philadelphia, as in, “Could you spare two dollars? I just need to get a bus back to . . .” (Sure, pal, as long as I can watch you get on it.)

I’ve been asked for subway tokens, articles of clothing (specific things I was wearing at the moment), cigarettes, and the time and then my watch.

This afternoon in Center City Philadelphia, in the Photo District (actually, there’s no such thing but I like saying that because it sounds sort of cool and, besides, I can’t conceive of any other reason why there would or should be three photo shops -- Ritz Camera, Mid-City Camera, and Comet Camera -- along a two-block stretch of Walnut Street, east of Broad), a woman standing in front of a deli asked, “Would you please buy me a liverwurst sandwich?”

And do you know what? I almost did. I mean, she deserves points for originality at least.