Trends Reviews and Recaps

Here at TRR, and by proxy, at The Rittenhouse Review, we’re just going to pretend the “Wing Bowl” never happened.

However, if you insist on reading local coverage of this bizarre event, go here, if you dare:

“A Little Woman Shall Lead Them,” by Dawn Fallik (Philadelphia Inquirer)

“Thong and Dance,” by (the incomparable) Tanya Barrientos (Philadelphia Inquirer)

“Wingador Ousted by Alien Muncher,” by Jim Nolan, Philadelphia Daily News

As my readers know, I am probably leaving Philadelphia within the next three weeks. But before moving I would like, just once, to do something I never before in my life have done: karaoke.

And I know exactly with whom I want to perform this undoubtedly humiliating -- for me -- experience: with my oldest friend in the world. Maybe not my “oldest” friend, but my most longstanding friend, the woman who has been been my friend, without fail, without failure, and without failing, for twenty-three years, namely C.M.K..

And she can sing.

And so I hope, if we do this, she will cover for me.

The thing is, as I noted above, I’ve never “done” karaoke, anywhere, let alone with such an accomplished vocalist. And since I don’t get out much, I don’t even know where “quality” karaoke is done in Philadelphia.

So, while time is short, and I cannot and will not promise you an invitation to this bizarre event, if you have any ideas as to where the most wonderful friend in the world and I might make a fool of, well, me, please send me your suggestions.

For a brief moment or two I actually thought my landlord’s agent, she with the office so far removed from me that I need not, even in this weather, put on a coat to reach it -- as the office, where much make-up is applied throughout the day, is but 300 feet, tops, down the hall -- was unaware that she, or that her employer and their attorneys on her behalf and command, was actually suing me, dragging me into court for what can only be described as a false, faulty, hasty, premature, and frivolous complaint.

But late on Friday afternoon, as is her wont, her inclination, and her penchant, I learned I was wrong. Said agent, she of the sometimes big hair and the thick local accent, is well informed, believe it or not. She knows we’re going to court on February 12. In fact, in Friday afternoon’s scrawled, almost incoherent, note to me, which she slipped under my front door without knocking, she all but bragged about it:

[J]ust to let you know you have a hearing [illegible, unintelligible] next week for the unpaid rent for January, plus late fees[,] and attorney[s’] fees[.] If you don’t show up for the hearing you will get [sic] an automatic judgement [sic] against you. Once you have paid all [of] the balance due I can[’]t [illegible, unintelligible] and all judgements [sic].

(By the way, this, at least from what I assume she was trying to convey, is a lie. The complaint asserts far more than this, alleged faults on my behalf that said agent knew, or should have known, were false no later than January 7, 2004.)

Now, I don’t know whether Miss Thing went to college, let alone graduated therefrom, and I will leave it to you, the reader, to make your own determination based on the simple yet ruined and completely bawlderized, the utterly abominable, sentences quoted above, but I have heard a rumor she holds a certificate in dog grooming, which, in her case, is the equivalent of a Ph.D. in cosmetology or personal hygiene.

You know, I’m actually looking forward to all of this.

Hey, you think I’m being mean? Hell, sometimes being a bitch is all a faggot has to hold on to.

I’ll bet almost every blogger has had this experience at least once. Something’s on your mind. You want to blog about it, and you want to offer readers something more than a link. You want to put in your two cents or, in the case of some bloggers, like me I suppose, your six or seven cents (and then there’s that guy in San Diego who puts his cents in using handfuls of dimes). But you’re not sure what to write. It’s gone through your head a couple of dozen times. Maybe there’s even a draft on your hard drive. Yet the moment dissipates. The link looks stale. Another time, maybe.

And then it happens. Every thoughtful blogger’s nightmare. Someone writes that very same post. And does it so well there’s just nothing to add. (Okay, maybe not a nightmare, really, but you know what I mean.)

It happened to me yesterday. Not in the blogosphere, but in Philadelphia magazine, which is kind of a shame, because it’s a great article but it’s not on line.

In “X-treme Annoyance” (Philadelphia, February 2004, pp. 42-43), Noel Weyrich says everything I was thinking -- and more -- about the inexplicable controversy surrounding skateboarding in Philadelphia’s John F. Kennedy Plaza, at Benjamin Franklin Parkway and 16th Street, also known as “LOVE Park” in recognition of the Robert Indiana sculpture that resides there.

You see, a few years ago skateboarders took over the park, which from what I understand and concede had fallen into rather consistent disuse, though that is irrelevant now, and trashed the place. And the neighboring sidewalks. And the public-space plazas abutting nearby office buildings. And, in the process, they managed to scare the bejeebus out of nearly anyone who dared to try to assert his or her right to engage in such outrageous behavior as, say, to walk through the park or on the neighboring sidewalks and plazas, or to sit in the park or on the few available benches on the neighboring sidewalks and plazas.

The city, finally recognizing the damage to the park and the sidewalks and the plazas, and the general deteriorating quality of life the area, finally said enough, and rightly banned skateboarding in JFK Plaza. An uproar of sorts ensued, with the local major dailies experiencing repeated attacks of righteous apoplexy and a stray politician or two, pandering for the “youth” vote, whatever that is, standing up for principle, whatever that might be.

For now, all I can offer from the Weyrich essay are a few excerpts, enough to generate some disagreeable e-mail but not so much that I invite a ruckus over copyright infringement. (Oh, and a few remarks of my own. What did you expect?) So here goes:

Skateboarding -- “street skating,” more precisely -- is a sport the way graffiti is an art. Half the thrills come from messing with something that doesn’t belong to you.

Center City building owners have fought back, blighting their plazas by bolting ugly little-L-shaped steel clips on walls and benches to deter the skaters from “grinding” (a skateboarding term) their axels along the edges. But the steel-clip defense holds other risks. In an incident that went unreported in the papers last spring, skateboarders frustrated by new clips at one office plaza pried them up and pitched them through a nearby shop window. [...]

Among recent college graduates surveyed last year by the Center City District, the top four criteria for choosing a place to live were cost, walkability, safety, and proximity to work. The thrill of vandalism didn’t come up.

Street rats

I’m with Weyrich. Shoo these obnoxious vandals, these “street rats” (his words, and mine) away once and for all. Frankly, as starved for revenue as this city is, I think we’ll manage just fine without the pittance of sales tax these detestable urchins might occasionally cough up when buying chewing tobacco and bubble gum, both of which, I might add, they also use to deface the park and the sidewalks and the plazas.

We’re supposed to share LOVE Park with these guys? The same knuckleheads who can’t share Walnut Street, or Chestnut Street, or Market Street, preferring instead to terrorize genuine shoppers on those thoroughfares, to say nothing of the tourists they send scattering on the Parkway? Build the park you say they need so badly, build it somewhere else, but let the city’s real taxpayers have JFK Plaza.

(I’m willing to bet, though, that if the city builds the skateboarding park currently under discussion it will rarely, if ever, be used. Not because, as the editorialists would have you think, because JFK Plaza is in the heart of the city, but because, as Weyrich says, vandalism -- and terrorism -- is the name of the game.)

Justifiably taking to task the city’s two major dailies, the Philadelphia Inquirer and the Philadelphia Daily News, both of which have been harping on this issue -- in enthusiastic support of the skateboarders -- with an intensity and frequency better reserved for such issues as the wage tax, corruption, development of the waterfronts, and, what else, oh, how about why the hell there are so many damn parking lots and parking garages blighting Center City, Weyrich observes:

[N]one of the people who actually use LOVE Park are clamoring for the return of the skaters. Only ivory-tower suburbanites (the majority of both editorial boards) and pandering city politicians are seriously pushing this idea. I a low point of a mayoral campaign filled with low points, Sam Katz actually mounted a skateboard at a press conference, falling on his ample ass. [Local notes: The Inquirer and the Daily News share offices in a building that is literally, one could say, an “ivory tower.” Katz, a Republican, unsuccessfully challenged incumbent Mayor John F. Street in the November mayoral election.]

Wiffle ball anyone?

Weyrich, mindful of the need for as many recreation opportunities as possible in Philadelphia, cleverly has proposed a new Wiffle ball league. The league’s proposed stomping grounds, its suggested playing field? Out front at 400 North Broad Street, the home of both the Inquirer and the Daily News.

“We’ll have a great time for about five minutes,” Weyrich writes. “But when the security guards race to shoo us away, I am fully confident that the editorial boards of both papers will rally to our defense.”

According to Weyrich, the first meeting of the North Broad Wiffle Ball League will be held on Thursday, February 5, with the first pitch tossed at noon.

Damn! Can’t make it. Jury duty calls.

Andy, Andy, Andy, Andy Roddick, I mean, you make it so hard to be a fan.

Andy Roddick in Australia

You can be one of the great ones, one of the truly great ones.

Are you sure you’re not from Philadelphia?

Hey, wait a second, the fire/emergency alarm is going off in my building!

You know? How do you know? It can’t be because there’s a large assembly of residents in front of the building, for, as usual, there is none.

Well, maybe there are some new people here. Everyone else knows better.

Me, I’ve heard this hundreds of times. I know enough not to go anywhere.

Mildred? Well, she’s sleeping on my bed, a room in which is piped, with annoying frequency, and along with the daily exhortations of Kim Jong-Il, the warning, “There has been a report of an emergency. Proceed calmly to the nearest exit and leave the building immediately. Do not use the elevators, use stairwells where necessary.”

It’s obvious she’s going nowhere.

Tough Jersey girls have been a topic at TRR in the past. And while I have nothing against tough Jersey girls per se, in no small part because all of my sisters could, for at least part of their lives, have been labeled as such, I find the entire phenomenon humorous, especially when I read something like the following, pulled from Saturday’s Philadelphia Daily News [Ed.: Second item.]:

A disgruntled South Jersey McDonald’s customer was arrested after throwing a fit -- and two milkshakes -- because her order took too long.

Michelle Molina, 29, was charged with simple assault and criminal mischief Thursday after the incident, police said.

The incident began when Molina and a man ordered five Happy Meals and three Value Meals at the drive-thru window of Store No. 18581 in Pleasantville, N.J.

The two had received part of their order and manager Ron Gaskill was bringing the rest when they pulled away, parked and walked inside to get the rest of the food. […]

Molina and the man then berated Gaskill with obscenities before Molina threw a soda, a chocolate shake and then a second chocolate shake at him.

The first shake hit him in the chest; the other drinks sprayed the kitchen, spoiling some food.

God love the wayward Jersey girl. After all, she’s just being herself.

Last evening as I approached my building at the start of rush hour I noticed traffic was moving unusually slowly, if at all, circumstances that, as you might expect, led quickly to much honking of automobile horns, rolling down of windows, and groundhogging from drivers on my street. As I walked closer to home, I saw a number of vans sporting the logos of the local television stations. Still nearer, I noticed at least five police cars.

Something’s going down, I thought. I walked a bit farther and soon decided it must be some sort of ruckus at Planned Parenthood’s building, an assumption based in part on seeing several PP “escorts” in front of the facility. Not being particularly interested in street-level theological or ideological disputes, I headed inside.

Boy, was I wrong. It was a shooting. And not a robbery or a dispute over drugs or a prostitute (which does occur around here, though I hasten to add this really is a nice neighborhood), it was road rage.

The Philadelphia Daily News today reports (“Road-rage Incident Sparks Shooting,” by Simone Weichselbaum):

It all began when two drivers cut each other off while driving on North Broad Street shortly before 4:30 p.m., police said.

Now, that’s disturbing, purely from a road-rage perspective, because North Broad isn’t all that close to here.

Continuing:

They flipped each other the finger, then continued driving erratically toward Center City. Finally, one of the drivers, Tarik Bembery, 23, pulled over on Locust Street near 12th to drop off his girlfriend, a passenger in his Pontiac station wagon.

“Flipped each other the finger.” You’ve just gotta love the Daily News. I wonder what the New York Times style guide advises for this. “Exchanged vulgar gestures”?

More:

At that point, police said the other driver, Sebastino Garro, 24, pulled his Cadillac El Dorado over a half a block down Locust and walked toward Bembery waving a collapsible baton.

Seeing the threat, Bembery pulled out a .50 caliber Desert Eagle, a powerful handgun, and fired three shots -- one striking Garro’s leg, police said.

Garro was hospitalized and a pedestrian was wounded slightly.

God, I love this city. I really do.

(Hey, look at this. You may remember that I mentioned having found it strange that Philadelphians, like the Brits, call the sidewalk “the pavement.” If you didn’t believe me, here it is in the first sentence of the PDN article to which I’ve linked: “A road rage showdown exploded on Locust Street in Center City yesterday afternoon, as blood and bullets splattered the pavement, leaving two men wounded.” Weird, isn’t it?)

Many, many years ago there was a handsome young man who worked, quite briefly, for a company in Washington, D.C., the main products of which were marketed toward the city’s trade associations, lobbyists, political consultants, pollsters, and law firms.

One of our top prospects at the time was the law firm Akin Gump Strauss Hauer & Feld.

The salespeople used to refer to this particularly obstinate and difficult potential customer as, “Oh, my aching gums!”

I thought of this today because my gums are aching. They have been since yesterday.

I’m not sure why. I’m not experiencing a new bout of xerostomia, also known as “dry mouth,” a side effect of one of my medications, and, by the way, a condition that is much more painful -- and damaging to one’s mouth -- than it sounds.

So the hypochondriac in me, which is but one, and a very minor one at that, of my many personalities, is all but convinced I’m developing oral cancer. And he’s ready to blame it on my smoking.

God, I hope he’s wrong. Not necessarily about the smoking, but about the cancer. (Regardless, I will quit smoking this year.)

Several weeks ago some friends gave me, as a Christmas present, a carton of cigarettes. Very much appreciated in these cash-strapped times, I assure you. But having ready access to that carton proved, among other things, that when one has an ample supply of tobacco at home, and thus has no need to buy a pack of cigarettes a day, the money one carries about in one’s wallet lasts much, much longer. (And in case you were wondering, yes, in the event I develop emphysema, lung cancer, or some other disorder, these friends will be on the list of named defendants.)

Of course, I also need to get to the dentist. It’s been an embarrassing -- humiliating, really -- three years for me. In that I am not so different from Caroline Payne, the subject of an extraordinary feature article in Sunday’s New York Times Magazine -- “A Poor Cousin of the Middle Class,” by David K. Shipler -- about whom I wrote yesterday and for whom I offered last evening’s prayers.

There have been days recently when I have felt truly cursed. Today is one of them.

For whatever reason I decided this afternoon to wash my bed pillows. When the wash was complete, I opened the machine only to find the covers had been shredded.

Not that big a deal, I know, especially if this were merely an isolated incident -- not to say that I’ve been having laundry tragedies on a regular basis -- but as part of what’s starting to look like a pattern, I can’t help but feel just a bit targeted, shall we say.

They’re really nice pillows, too. They’re old, quite old -- Maybe even 10 or 12 years old? -- but they’re top-quality down pillows that cost quite a bit of money, even way back then.

A friend suggested I simply sew up the damaged seams.

Huh? I thought she knew me better than that.

Tomorrow I will see what the manager at the dry cleaning shop says. If it’s too expensive, I’ll check with mom. I’m not throwing these away. I can’t afford to live like that anymore.

Today's the day. The day the Philadelphia Eagles may, and I hope and pray will, after having beaten some ragtag group of nobodies from one of those cracker states, one of the Carolinas, I think, win the National Football Conference championship for the first time in more than 20 years.

Local coverage from today and yesterday:

"Birds May Need Man Who'll be Missing," by Bob Brookover

"He’s Always an Adventure," by Bob Brookover

"Kalu Avoiding Distractions This Year," by Bob Brookover

"We Have an Announcement: Go, Birds!," by Mensah M. Dean

"Eagles Have Some Extra Fans," by Larry Eichel

"Ailing Davis Returns to Practice Field," by Frank Fitzpatrick and Bob Brookover

"In Brief Span, the Panthers Have Gone From Contentious to Contenders" by Frank Fitzpatrick

"Make History or Be History," by Bob Ford

"His Dream: Finish Championship Run," by Ashley McGreachy Fox

"At City Hall, Fans Were Psyched," by Dan Geringer

"Happy to be Here, Panthers Still Want More," by Mike Kern

"Birds Making a Living Guarding the Red Zone," by Bill Lyon

"Eagles Prepare to Try Again," by Bill Lyon

"Ahem . . . About Those Uniforms," by Jim Nolan

"Can't Call this 'Wall of Fate' Fickle," by Jim Nolan

"Holding Up Under Stress," by Dana Pennett O'Neill

"Parties Won't Ignore the Game," by Ronnie Polaneczky

"It's on Them," by Phil Sheridan

"Big-game Threat," by Stephen A. Smith

"Survivor in AFC Will Win Super Bowl," by Stephen A. Smith

Fellow Philly blogger Adam Bonin will, I assume, be watching from his fabulous season-ticket seats at Lincoln Financial Field. Don't you just hate him? Just for this, I mean. Forget the thriving law career and the incredibly (and deservedly) successful novelist wife. And Lucy. Don't forget Lucy. (And Wendell. Mildred said make sure to mention Wendell. He's a little guy.)

Me? Look for me either at a local tavern or, more likely, listening at home on the radio. (No TV here at Rittenhouse.)

By the way, if you telephone me between 6:00 and 9:00 p.m. this evening, forget about getting an answer.

Oh, and I think the Colts are playing the Patriots. Maybe today. Soon anyway. Who cares, except to the extent the outcome affects the Eagles? Wait, one of my brothers-in-law cares, which is basically the same as saying, well, nobody.

PHILADELPHIA DAILY NEWS

“When You Gotta Go, Subway is Your Best Option,” by Carla Anderson

“It’s the NFC 500,” by Ed Barkowitz [Note: Feature depends heavily on graphics that are not reproduced on the web site.]

“Make Your Play,” by Ed Barkowitz

“Point - Counterpoint,” by Ed Barkowitz

“Houston, Here Come the Birds,” by Les Bowen

“Kicking is No Breeze at Windy Linc,” by Les Bowen

“Panthers Pose Defensive Challenge,” by Les Bowen

“Eagles’ Season in Review,” by Bob Cooney

“Panthers’ Season in Review,” by Bob Cooney

“Expect Birds to Redo Reid’s Contract,” by Paul Domowitch

“Key Matchups Worth Watching,” by Paul Domowitch

“All Together Now: Let’s Go, Pats,” by Sam Donnellon

“The Last Ride?” by Marcus Hayes

“Why Carolina Could Very Well Win This Game,” by Rich Hofmann

“Dawkins in Super Mood,” by Kevin Mulligan

“Eagles Inflatables a Hot Item,” by Jim Nolan

“Don’t Fry Your Ride!” by Don Russell and Jim Nolan

“Last NFC Title: Jan. 11, 1981,” by PDN Staff

“Eagles Fans Behaving Badly,” by Jill Porter

“Morgan’s Homecoming,” by John Smallwood

“Double V is Looking for a Carolina Threesome,” by Vegas Vic

“Seeing . . . And Not Believing,” by Paul Vigna

PHILADELPHIA INQUIRER

“Birds’ Akers Learning Which Way Wind Blows,” by Bob Brookover

“A Season Recap: A Birds’ Eye View,” by Bob Ford

“McNabb’s Success is the Family Goal,” by Annette John-Hall

“An All-star by Any Name,” by Ashley McGeachy Fox

[Note: Although the PDN is published on Saturdays, pre-game coverage is heaviest on Fridays, while the Inquirer goes all out on Saturdays.]

I herewith present a not-so-hypothetical hypothetical.

Late Friday, January 9, I heard drips of water hitting my bathroom ceiling.

“That can’t be good,” I thought.

Saturday morning, January 10, I reported the drips, along with the accompanying water damage in my bathroom, to the doorman.

“Oh, okay,” he said, adding, “I know you don’t want your stuff damaged and everything, but, I don’t know, there’s no one here now, so I’ll write it up, but I don’t know what they’ll do.”

I admit, dripping water above one’s bathroom isn’t exactly a life-or-death situation, but when prevailing temperatures are scarily below freezing, one would think that word of dripping pipes and water damage would lead any reasonable lessor to investigate the situation.

Alas, at my building at least, no.

It is now Wednesday. Midday Wednesday. And still, four days later, the building has yet to send anyone over to investigate the situation.

For all I know, the ceiling could collapse at any moment.

Not that anyone cares. Surely the building manager doesn’t, as she has yet to return two phone calls I have placed about this matter.

Speaking of nephews -- and we were -- I’m pleased to report that my eldest nephew earned a 4.0 in his first semester of college.

All I can say is “Wow.”

Congratulations, dude.

PHILADELPHIA INQUIRER

“Eagles Keep Winning Despite a Key Statistic,” by Bob Brookover

“Eagles Notes: McNabb Snags SI Cover,” by Bob Brookover

“City Warns Birds Fans About Fires,” by Larry Eichler

“Sunday’s Game is Sold Out,” by Larry Eichler

“Sunday’s Game to Give Economy a Bit of a Lift,” by Larry Eichler

“Carolina Rookie Chirping About the Birds’ Chances,” by Frank Fitzpatrick

“He’s Panthers’ Quiet Reserve,” by Frank Fitzpatrick

“Pinkston Seeing Career Break Into Career,” by Ashley McGeacy Fox

“Eagles Should Feel Free to Enjoy This Game,” by Phil Sheridan

PHILADELPHIA DAILY NEWS

“The Last Do-over?” by Les Bowen

“Eagles Have Passed This Way Before,” by Paul Domowitch

“The Third Degree,” by Rich Hofmann

“Sixers Rooting for Eagles,” by Phil Jasner

“Some of the Best Things in Life are Three,” by Barbara Laker

“Trainer Keep Injured Birds on Track,” by Dana Pennett O’Neil

“Kasay Must Wonder if There’s More Trouble Afoot,” by John Smallwood

“The Third One Worked,” by Paul Vigna

I don’t know whether kids today still say, in Art Linkletter’s immortal words, “the darndest things,” but I know my nieces and nephews do.

Here are just a few from my nephew C. (6, today! Happy Birthday!):

“God, please take all the bad people, open up their heads, take all the bad stuff out, and put good stuff into their brains and close up their heads. Amen.”

“Mom, when I grow up I’m going to cut down a million trees and make the Little Town of Burger King.”

“Mom, Mom, Mom, look at me! Watch and learn.”

“Mom, Mom, look! Cookie [a family cat] did a somersault. . . . Besides, what is a somersault?”

“Mom, this is the boringest Mother’s Day of my life.”

“Mom, we need a bigger house. With not so much wood, and more plastic.”

“You’ve just got to pause and sniff the flowers.”

“Mom, what if giant butter attacked the world?”

“Mom, what if all the cars going in that direction were coming toward us in our direction?”

To Mom and Dad: “I’m just sick and tired.” Mom and Dad: “Why?” To Mom and Dad: “Because I have to listen to the two of you talking to me at the same time.”

Do you like getting free stuff in the mail? Stuff like greeting cards, return address labels, calendars, mugs, piggy banks, key chains, and the like?

If so, write out a couple of checks to the Humane Society of the United States and the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.

Both are worthy charities and both long have been at the top of the list of recipients of my once well known largesse. And both will keep you well supplied with trinkets and doodads for the rest of the year. Think of your donations as the gifts that keep on giving -- to you.

Although I wasn’t able to make my annual year-end donation to either group, I continue to receive little gift packages, or gratuities, from both organizations. Just yesterday I received five greeting cards from the Humane Society.

Last fall I noticed for the first time that a donor can elect not to receive such merchandise, thereby enabling the Humane Society and the ASPCA to put more of one’s donation to work helping animals and promoting the safe and sane treatment thereof.

I was tempted at the time, but to be honest, I kind of like getting free stuff.

By the way, the Pennsylvania Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals will hold its annual Mardi Paw fundraiser at the Pennsylvania Convention Center in Philadelphia on February 21. Tickets are $60 in advance and $75 at the door. You should go. Pets, unfortunately and inexplicably, are not allowed. Mildred and I will be there in spirit.

PHILADELPHIA INQUIRER

"Birds' Last-ditch Daring Defies Comparing," by Bob Brookover

"Vincent Predicts His Hip to be Square by Sunday," by Bob Brookover

"Incredible Pass, Indelible Memory," by Bill Lyon

"For Some, Eagles Fever Comes Late," by Natalie Pompilio, Edward Colimore, and Marc Schogol

PHILADELPHIA DAILY NEWS

"Fur is Flying Off the Racks," by Jenice M. Armstrong

"Eagles' Defense Meets Goal," by Les Bowen

"A Memory-maker," by Sam Donnellon

"Limbaugh: Comments 'Distorted,'" by Rich Hoffmann

"McNabb Impresses Hitchcock," by Edward Moran

"Packed and Gone," by Kevin Mulligan

"Getting a Grip: Reid, McNabb Hold on to Each Other," by Dana Pennett O'Neil

"Delhomme a Surprise, Even to Panthers' Coach," by John Smallwood

It’s a new year -- at least it was last I checked, each day being much like another around here -- and that means it’s time for Philadelphia to read another book under the auspices of the city’s “One Book, One Philadelphia” program.

This year’s selection, according to today’s Philadelphia Inquirer (“Phila. Picks ‘Color of Water’ to Read,” by Daniel Rubin), is The Color of Water, a two-year bestseller (1996-1997) written by James McBride, 46, a writer and jazz saxophonist living in Solebury, Pa.

The novel, described by Rubin as “a black man’s tribute to his Polish-Jewish mother,” is set partly in Philadelphia’s Germantown neighborhood and nearby Wilmington, Del.

Although I have some misgivings about citywide reading programs, the advantages seem to far outweigh the disadvantages. I missed out on last year’s selection, The Price of a Child, by Lorene Cary. That was unfortunate because Cary’s enthusiasm for the program -- she spoke to an amazing variety of groups in a wide range of settings -- and the incredible response of local readers made me wish I had participated in some way. I at least could have read the book.

According to the Inquirer McBride plans to speak and perform at some of the more than 100 “One Book, One Philadelphia” events scheduled during the next eight weeks. Sounds like fun.

Philadelphia Eagles 20

Green Bay 17

Donovan McNabb, Duce Staley, David Akers, Brian Dawkins, Andy Reid, and so many others!

Sure, that was a strange ending, but who cares? It was a great game, and I’m glad it’s noisy in Philadelphia tonight.

A good kind of noisy.

Post-publication addendum (January 12): Coverage of the Eagles in today’s daily newspapers.

PHILADELPHIA INQUIRER

“Birds Get a Win on the Wild Side,” by Bob Brookover

“Eagles Turn Back Packers in OT,” by Bob Brookover

“An Early Stand That Mattered Late,” by Larry Eichel

“Panthers Ready for Visit to the Linc,” by Frank Fitzpatrick

“The Start of Something Big?” by Bob Ford

“Akers’ Answer was Blowing in the Wind,” by Ashley McGeachey Fox

“Quiet Skepticism Finally Grows Into Fans’ Joyful Noise,” by Patrick Kerkstra and Matthew P. Blanchard

“Eagles Once Again Find Way to Keep Dream Alive,” by Bill Lyon

“Eagles Blitz Aids Dawkins’[s] Big Interception,” by Ron Reid

“Circumstances of Defeat Leave Packers Devastated,” by Jim Salisbury

“‘Ya gotta believe,’ he said, Especially on 4th and Long,” by Phil Sheridan

“Sherman Inexcusably Folds at Crunch Time,” by Stephen A. Smith

PHILADELPHIA DAILY NEWS

“Eagles’ Brown Bounces Back,” by Les Bowen

“Perfectly Eagle,” by Les Bowen

“In Our Mind There’s Nothing in Carolina,” by Will Bunch

“Adding to the List of Sports' Miracle Plays,” by Bill Conlin

“Johnson's Only Concern is the Final Score,” by Paul Domowitch

“Like the Other Greats, McNabb Kept Firing Away,” by Sam Donnellon

“Play That Might Live Forever,” by Paul Hagen

“Hard to Figure, So Just Enjoy,” by Rich Hoffman

“A Yard Short, Packers Wouldn’t Take Big Gamble,” by Mike Kern

“Fans Never Gave Up Hope,” by Jim Nolan

“Dawkins Waits and Gets His Chance,” by Dana Pennett O’Neil

“Akers Atones Nicely for Rare Miss,” by Dana Pennett O’Neil

“Hip-flexor Injury Keeps Vincent on Sidelines,” by Dana Pennett O’Neil

“Unlocking the Keys,” by PDN staff

“Panthers Not a Team to be Taken Lightly,” by John Smallwood

I don’t know if this is some kind of mystery, trick, or joke, but if anyone has any suggestions as to how I might pull the rear end off of my Crest SpinBrush in order to remove the batteries, please let me know, because the whole thing is just driving me crazy.

And it’s keeping me from listing the SpinBrush as one of the world’s greatest inventions.

I received the following message from Philadelphia Daily News columnist Ronnie Polaneczky yesterday, January 6, this her second missive in response to my piece, “Go Wild!”:

me, again

I can indeed be thin-skinned about some things (I’m only human...), but I’m sure not being thin-skinned about your references to my column. Instead, I’m [expletive deleted] that you put words in my mouth. Don’t do that, please. You can certainly take issue with whatever I actually WRITE, which is not only fine to do but in keeping with the lively spirit that characterizes your fun site, which I usually think is terrific. But to pretend to paraphrase something I never even wrote is misleading and just plain wrong.

Thanks for hearing me out on this.

Ronnie P.

I would have thought an experienced journalist like Polaneczky would have known that having raised the issue of libel, as she did in her January 5 e-mail to me, published at The Rittenhouse Review and TRR: The Lighter Side of Rittenhouse on the same date, that any direct contact between us should and would be immediately suspended, hereinafter to be conducted between her attorney(s) and mine.

Such is standard procedure in this business. (Just ask Los Angeles Times “editor” Mary Arno.)

Again, as I wrote on January 5:

I’ll leave it to readers to decide for themselves whether I accurately captured the spirit of Polaneczky’s article, “Revive the Vibe of Mayhem at Parade,” which may be read in its entirety online.

As for me, I suggest she is the one who needs to “re-read the column.”

For edification, I would advise readers to review Polaneczy’s article, particularly the last 14 paragraphs, in which the columnist approvingly quotes nearly 250 words from an e-mail or letter from PDN reader Mike Purkis.

Purkis lamented the “crack down” by Philadelphia police on Mummers Parade attendees who, in flagrant violation of the city’s open container laws, apparently thought little of consuming “beer” from “kegs of beer.”

Those are his words, not mine, and they are words happily, almost enthusiastically, by my reading, quoted by Polaneczky, who subsequently included this, from Mike, in reference to the parade: “It’s stupid. It’s no fun,” and to which she added, of her own accord, “Tell it, Mike!”

Polaneczky continued:

I think Mike’s onto something. Maybe, just as Las Vegas is embracing its original[] Sin City vibe in a racy ad campaign whose [sic] saucy slogan -[-] “What happens here, stays here” -[-] is aimed at re-energizing tourism, we 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. [Empasis added.]

All of this within the PDN’s six-day P.R. campaign to get more Philadelphians to attend the parade.

I stand by what I wrote. Other than that, I still -- and can -- have nothing to say to her.

I learned this morning there’s at least one little town in America where Taco Bell is taken very seriously: Green Bay, Wis.

Ahead of this weekend’s match between the Philadelphia Eagles and the Green Bay Packers, William Bunch of the Philadelphia Daily News writes about the village by the lake (“Bring it on, Cheeseheads!”):

So why do 70,000 cheese-headed folks -- 70 percent of the town (don’t call it a city - pul-leeez) -- show up at Lambeau Field on any given Sunday? Why has pro football succeeded here and failed in places with a few more folks, like, say, Los Angeles?

It’s not because the people are made of hearty midwestern stock. It’s because THERE’S ABSOLUTELY NOTHING ELSE TO DO THERE!!!

Well, actually, there’s one other thing to do in Green Bay -- drink. Under the heading of “Entertainment,” the Green Bay Press-Gazette’s Web site doesn’t have “Nightlife” but there’s a massive section for “Taverns” -- as if there’s a difference between the Buck Stop Inn and the creatively named Watering Hole Tavern.

You’re certainly better off drinking than eating. The “Restaurant” section lists all nine of Green Bay’s Taco Bells under the heading “ethnic.”

Ethnic. That’s so cute, isn’t it?

This reminds me of a trip to Minneapolis more than 10 years ago during which everyone I met expressed great concern for my well being because I had my first dinner in that city at a Caribbean restaurant: “Oooo, are you alright? I hear the food there is so spicy.”

And do you know what? It really wasn’t. Spicy? Yes. “So spicy”? No. Topic-of-conversation spicy? Definitely not.

Philadelphia Daily News columnist and thin-skinned mayhem-seeker Ronnie Polaneczky writes, in response to “Go Wild!” (TRR: The Lighter Side of Rittenhouse, December 30):

wow - that’s a stretch

You wrote that I want “Mayhem and beer.”

Did I say mayhem AND BEER? Where did I write that?

You wrote that I want “Free-flowing beer for everyone.”

I do? Where did I write that?

And that I don’t care about “No public restrooms along Broad Street?”

Wha...? What are you talking about?

You wrote that “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.”

I want people to pee in the alleys? Where did I write that?

I haven’t figured out if your references to my column are libelous or not, but they sure are stupid and inaccurate. Re-read the column. [Emphasis added.]

And, no, I don’t live near Broad Street. But I live right off the Parkway, and my front yard becomes a zoo every July 4th and for every single parade/festival/fireworks event on the Parkway that is ever scheduled. So what. We just deal with it. And the ones who don’t want to deal with it eventually move to the burbs, as is their right. Everyone has their preferences.

Ronnie P.

I’ll leave it to readers to decide for themselves whether I accurately captured the spirit of Polaneczky’s article, “Revive the Vibe of Mayhem at Parade,” which may be read in its entirety online.

As for me, I suggest she is the one who needs to “re-read the column.”

[Post-publication addendum: Seeking counsel.]

Big Taco Bell fan here. A regular border runner, as they say. When I get a hankering, when I get to a jonezin’, for Taco Bell, nothing else will do. (The same holds for McDonald’s, but that’s a tale for another day.)

I know it’s crap. I know it’s not “authentic.” But it fills a need, a void, a bizarre craving.

I just have one question: What’s with the “sour cream”?

There simply is no foodstuff in the world with less taste than Taco Bell’s sour cream.

The only word I can think of to describe the taste is “white.” Taco Bell’s sour cream tastes like white. Or whiteness. It tastes like white whiteness. I’m not having it again.

The prevailing sentiment around Philadelphia is that the 103rd Mummers Parade, held on Broad Street yesterday, was a resounding success, or at least an improvement over the festivities of the past several years.

Alas, Ronnie, there was no mayhem, and yet spectators managed to enjoy themselves nonetheless, aided more than anything, I suspect, by the weather: sunny, low 50s, and light breezes.

Both the Philadelphia Inquirer and the Philadelphia Daily News offer plenty of parade coverage today. A good place to start, especially to catch a few good photos set up as a slide show, is Bullish on Broad St.,” by Michael Currie Schaffer in the Inquirer.