June 2007 Archives

I'M JUST BACK FROM PITTSBURGHwhere Molly and I went to have a look around. And man, I gotta tell ya, what a sweet city. Even on a cloudy day. On a sunny day, Pittsburgh steps up to the plate as one of the most beautiful cities in the world when viewed from across the Monongahela River from atop the neighborhood of Mt. Washington -- imagine the hills of Manayunk on the opposite shore of the Schuylkill directly across from Center City.

Pittsburgh is a river city surrounded by mountains, which means that it is a city of tunnels and bridges. The bridges, incidentally, are painted yellow and black, the team colors of the Pirates and Steelers. That's the 16th Street Bridge across the Allegheny River from the Strip to the North shore below Troy Hill. I enhanced the photo to bring out the yellow.

PHILADELPHIA ON A GOOD DAY can seal the deal even for those who didn't know they were shopping for a city, let alone buying. On a good day, Philadelphia can make those of us who live here ache with pride and the wonder of it all. On a good day this city virtually glows; the brick is never so red, the glass spires of Center City gleam like the skyline of Oz, the sidewalks are clean and vibrant with shiney happy people having fun.

On such pinch-me days Philadelphia looks like the prettiest girl at the dance and she's going home with you. And Philadelphia has been enjoying a string of such matchless days, good tempered June weather, with bright mornings, clear afternoons and breezy evenings. And such was the weather that greeted the 127 members of the National Society of Newspaper Columnists each day during their four-day conference in Center City that ended this morning.

What I can almost guarantee is some amazing good press about Philadelphia in the days and weeks to come from the visiting columnists. And such confidence on my part that out-of-town journalists will write raves rather than take cheap shots at our city is a relatively new mindset. There was a time when Philadelphians expected to be trashed by hipper-than-thou scribes who teed up W.C. Fields jokes and the latest municipal embarrassments and took a couple of easy swings to make the folks back home feel better because at least they didn't live in Philadelphia.

In those days the very concept of boasting about Philadelphia on a good day would have been like the famous New Yorker cartoon showing two lady hippopotamuses looking longingly at a male hippopotamus wallowing in a mud hole. One lady hippopotamus whispers to the other, "He's almost too good looking." As a lifelong Philadelphipotamus I've always been in love with the beauty of this city, mud and all. But it's kind of nice to feel this relatively new phenomenon of confidence that others will see what we see, and love what we love. Philadelphia on a good day is like that.

Stu Bykofsky, the Daily News columnist who lobbied for Philadelphia as the site of the 31st annual NSNC conference, and who organized the official events, receptions and sight-seeing activities said this columnist conclave was the most successful in the organization's history. And it was the city and its people that won rave reveiws. "People kept coming up to me during the conference telling me how friendly Philadelphians are, how clean the city was, how much they loved walking the streets." And not one columnist asked about the murder rate.

IT WAS A NICE NIGHT and all was safe with the city. Except for those five people who were murdered the day before. But not on Walnut Street on the first blessed breezey evening of summer.

THERE WAS THE STINK of newspaper columnists about them, crowded as they were in America's oldest press club, the Pen and Pencil. So many opinions. So little time. This was last night during the National Society of Newspaper Columnists convention in Philadelphia. How can you go to a newspaper columnists convention without popping off about something? Being bossy with your opinions is part of your job description. Or that's what people think..

In my experience (and what do I know, really, about newspaper columnists?) most columnists would describe themselves as "basically shy." I'm basically shy. In my opinion. Most newspaper columnists don't like to bother people. Most newspaper columnists aren't bullies. But most newspaper columnists share a common dream. They want to be heard. They want to matter. They want to find the right words and speed them into print.

And then there are the rest, the glory seeking hound dogs who get found out for what they are almost faster than you forget their names afterward. Nothing but barks in the wind.

And then from across the room I saw him. The gold standard. Dave Barry. Hilarious human humorist. Suddenly Carley Simon was singing the background soundtrack, "He walked in. . .to the party. . . . like he was stepping on board a yacht."

Actually, Dave Barry is one of the most unassuming guys your'd ever want to meet. Still, in a room full of columnists he was a rock star. He was scheduled to address the convention this morning and I told him I'd be there if I wasn't hung over. I was and I didn't. But we had a great time catching up. Dave and I go way back. He was a reporter with the West Chester Daily Local News when I started as a suburban reporter covering Chester County at the Inquirer in 1972. Two years later at the age of 24 I was writing a daily column in the metro section of the Inky, a column called The Scene, which I continued to write for the next 20 years. Frankly, it was pretty flattering to hear Dave Barry decribed me as "my hero" to other newspaper columnists, most of whom had never heard of Clark DeLeon.

Anyway, that's a pal shot of Dave and me at the reception for the National Society of Newspaper Columnists. My suggested caption for that photo is:
"Not Just Gay,
Gay Americans."

AND THE ACADEMY AWARD for most the most obnoxious obsessive-compulsive TV commercial airing at all hours on commercial TV goes to. . . Zwinky.com!

Voters of the Academy had a hard time choosing between Zwinky, the baffling commercial featuring dancing hip-hop hentai cartoon kids, and Head On, the headache remedy which is the single biggest cause of sudden skull-piercing headaches caused by exposure to the advertising copy, which consists entirely of the words, "Head On. Apply directly to forehead. Head On. Apply directly to forehead. Head On. Apply directly to forehead . . ." until the onslaught of a migraine.

It's hard to out-obnoxious the blunt force trauma caused by a head-on collisiion with such a commercial (sort of the 10-second Krass Brothers men's store "You was robbed." advertising phenomenon of the 21st Century) but Zwinkydotcom won first honors because not only is the commercial airing several times an hour on the same TV shows, but its meaning is entirely incomprehensible.

The only discernable message that a viewer can be certain of from a Zwinky.com commerial are the words "Get Zwinky" which are repeated one-hundred and seventy-three thousand times in 30 seconds. What exactly Zwinky is is left to the imagination of viewers who are pummeled with cartoon images of little girls with boobs changing clothes and little boys break dancing. Apparently, Zwinky.com is an internet site where little girls can play dress up. So why is this commercial airing after midnight on such adult venues as Saturday Night live?

As a service to Metro readers, I have submitted myself to repeated viewings of the Zwinky.com commercial so that I can accurately report the actual words spoken at machine gun pace . It starts with three boys break dancing in the hallway of an apartment building. "Are the girls ready yet," asks one. "Nah, their getting Zwink with it," replies another. "That's right," says the third in a deep bass voice. Then all hell breaks loose with "Get Zwinky" chanted repeatedly , alternating with responses of "uh-huh" "that's right" and "dot com." Then you see the cartoon girls with their Betty Boop boobs dressing up as the announcer voice gets jiggy with the message, "You can be anyone. You can be yourself or someone else for fun. You can wear anything. Leather pants. Cool shoes. Spikey hair. Big bling. These are free and fun and hot. You can be a movie star and create your own plots. You can be a jet setter, or a little devil too. You can even be you. Get Zwinky. Get Zwiky. Get Zwinky."

Now you're going to be humming that all day. You've just been Manilowed.

WHAT MAKES THE WOMEN of Philadelphia so beautiful? You know what I mean. Striking. Original. Classy.

Ask a glint of sunlight on a speechless Saturday afternoon in June. How can a woman turn a rowhouse street corner into an event? How can light and shadow and architecture conspire with a flash of red to make Philadelphia look like the coolest city in the world?

It's the women. It's the Philadelphia girls. They're as real as you get. Even the flakey ones. Maybe "especially" the flakey ones. I don't know a Philadelphia girl worthy of the name who doesn't pack more style with less fuss in a stroll down the street than Paris Hilton ever mustered on a red carpet. But unlike Paris Hilton, Philadelphia girls know that the first rule of cool is keeping it together, even if they are out of their freaking minds. Which most of them will admit, eventually, if they know you well enough.

I could tell you stories. But my wife won't let me. I mean, I could tell you. But then she'd have to kill me. Let me just say that I've never met a Philadelphia girl who didn't have more balls than common sense. By that, I mean, you know, testicles. Cajones. Huevos. That je nais se whatthefuckareyoulookin'at? qua. . They don't always say it like that. But Philadelphia girls are capable, each and every lovely one of them, of tearing someone a new way of respecting them.

I romanticize, of course. But I speak as a grandfather who was once a son, a husband who was once a teenage boy, a father of two magnificent daughters who haven't thought I was cool since the Reagan Administration. I was born in Philadelphia and have lived here all my life. And I haven't known a Philadelphia girl who couldn't kick my ass, if she wanted to. And by "kick my ass" I mean being right when I'm wrong, but more importantly, by being right when I'm righter. The only way to win an argument with a Philadelphia girl is to have her referee and announce you the winner. A joyous phenomenon most male Phillies fans can only relate to as a hypothetical, but who , in their hearts, know has actually happened. . . Once. . . In a hundred and something-something years.

Like I said, I could tell you stories. But then, frankly, I'd have to kill myself, because at least I'd get the choice of weapons. Here's what I'm talking about. This happened almost exactly ten years ago in a neighborhood bar in Grays Ferry. I was standing next to a Philadelphia girl with an Irish freckled face and an Italian last name, a vivacious, funny, sweet woman in her mid-30's. She lived in Dagoland, which is what the resentful Hibernian residents north of Moore Street and west of 26th called their latinate southern neighbors living in more modern brick row houses with tiny well kept lawns.

I was new to the scene, so I didn't know quite what to make of the reaction of a guy standing at the bar when this skinny Colleen-looking girl from the wrong side of the Dagoland frontier shouted that she wanted everyone to sing along with the song playing on the juke box. "Go fuck yourself!,' the guy suggested, loudly. And these were the words this Philadelphia girl offered in response:

"I wish I could fuck myself," she said, glaring. "Because I'd be the best piece of ass I ever had."

Sing it girl!

" Well, East Coast girls are hip, I really dig those styles they wear.
And the Southern girls with the way they talk, they knock me out when I'm down there.
The Midwest farmer's daughters really makes you feel all right.
And the Northern girls, with the way they kiss, they keep their boyfriends warm at night.."

(Bada Bing. Bada Boom. You know where this is going.)

I wish they all could be Philadelphia girls.

"I've been all round this great big world
And I've seen all kinds of girls.
Yeah, but I couldn't wait
To get back in the states.
Back to the cutest girls in the world."

Bah-doom. I wish they all could be. . .

MY FRIEND JIM (NOT HIS REAL NAME) felt compelled to follow me out onto the sidewalk outside Dirty Frank's yesterday evening just so he could tell me that I haven't been keeping up the "daily" part of Daily DeLeon. I think I bitch slapped him before he could say something that hurt my feelings. But his point was well taken. I have not lived up to the title of this column/blog/website. I wrote a daiy newspaper column in the Philadelphia Inquirer for 20 years with some success, so I understand what "daily" means.

For better or for worse, I married a girl named Sally Daley 36 years ago after a six year courtship that started when she was 14 and I was 15. Everyone called her Sally except her father, who called her Sara, which was her given name, which I loved the moment I heard it, as much as I loved Sally Daley the first time I 'saw" her after eight or ten years of not noticing her every day in grade school at St. Margaret's. When we were married the priest asked , "Do you take Sally. . ." and I responded with the name Sara when I vowed to "love you and honor you all the days of my life."

A lot of people in the church noticed that I called her Sara instead of what the priest said. Which is the story of my life, if you haven't figured that out yet. I feel a need to set things straight as I see them. And I'm willing to embarrass everyone around me as I do it.

And given that, I feel it necessary to explain that I didn't come up with this name -- DAILY DeLeon -- to describe what I do in this space whenever I do it. The words "Daily DeLeon" are an expession of faith, like calling a Siano, Jimbo. But whenever Jimbo has something to say, I'm listening.

Which brings us to the photo in today's Double D. We finally cracked some sunshine on Saturday after a week of unrelenting April showerish weather for most of a week in mid-June. It reminded me of one of my favorite Bruce Springsteen songs from The Rising album, "Waitin' on a Sunny Day"

Without you, I'm workin' with the rain fallin' down
I'm half a party in a one dog town
I need you to chase these blues away
Without you, I'm a drummer girl that can't keep a beat
An ice cream truck on a deserted street
I hope that you're coming to stay

WHERE WERE YOU WHEN THE CABLE WENT OFF Sunday night? I was home on a sofa with Sara. We were keeping a running guess that changed every ten seconds. We sounded like the black people who talk out loud to the actors on the screen in a movie theater. "Uh, oh, here it comes. Tony, look UP for chrissakes!" The last episode of the Sopranos was not without drama at home.