March 2009 Archives

   OK, SO MAYBE YOU WEREN'T OUT IN IT, when that moment of nature's wrath passed through the area Sunday evening around dinner time.  Maybe you didn't see that roiling sky glowing white and black and yellow as the storm approached from the west.  And maybe you didn't have a camera to record when the air turned blue -- I mean, this is what it looked like in Roxborough just minutes before all hail broke out.

  Fortunately I was there to capture the moment.  And, boy, was it spooky. We don't get this kind of weather often.  And it was a sight like this that made me glad we don't.  

IT'S BEEN 24 YEARS since we went through this as a city. Twenty-four years years since Villanova made believers of us all. In 1985 Villanova was Howanova did these guys get to the Final Four. Not only did 'Nova defy the odds by becoming the lowest seed ever (eighth) to win the title, the little suburban college near St. David's slayed Goliath in the process. Defending national champion Georgetown University. Home of Patrick Ewing, the most dominant center of his era, and John Thompson, whose status in the empire of college basketball coaches ranked him with Darth Vader. Georgetown was a force of nature. Villanova was the unguarded underdog about to become the perfect storm.

The final game was a passion play. Darth Vader versus Jake Nevins in a wheelchair. Villanova players were like knights versus the Orc hordes from Morder. Rumpled Rollie Massimino was the Rumplestiltskin with a secret to victory. Keep the score low. We can't run with Georgetown, but we can beat them by keeping the winning score under 70. Villanova beat Georgetown by a score of 66-64. Whodathunknova? Not me, not anyone. Except Nova. And Philadelphia. And the Big Five. And all that.

We watched Wowanova on Saturday night. Was that a great game or what? Villanova beat Pitt by two points with a half-second on the clock, and yet Pitt managed to almost win the game with a desperation three-pointer that was as close as the game itself. But down to the final seconds we all knew Villanova would win -- could win? -- no, would win. I don't know how I knew that, but I did. I felt the Force. This is a new feeling for me as a Philadelphia sports fan. I fear the Phillies have taught us bad habits. Like believing in the obvious.

The team I saw beat Pitt can beat anyone. Can Villanova lose? Of course. Should we savor this week on the mountain top? Yew betcha. Let me thank Villanova for giving us a week like this. Thank you Villanova. We haven't been here in 24 years. It feels so good because, you know, you're family. We (Temple, St. Joe's, Lasalle, Penn fans) hate you as much as ever, of course. But like five brothers fighting against each other with a fury only brothers can understand, we still want you to beat the "other" guy's ass. And even then it won't be nearly as good as beating yours.

  IN FRONT OF THE NATIONAL CONSTITUTION CENTER Saturday, with Independence Hall in the distance and a tourist horse and carriage creeping past, was a car destroyed by a suicide bombing in Baghdad in 2007.  The mangled rust-covered remains of the car are part of a travelling exhibit called Converstions About Iraq that is making its way from New York to Los Angeles.

  You can find out more at www.conversationsaboutiraq.org.  

   THERE SHE WAS JUST'A WALKIN' DOWN THE STREET singing do-wah-diddy-diddy-down-diddy-do.   She was walking across our dinner table, actually.  But she looked good (She looked GOOD!) She looked fine (She looked FINE!) And I nearly lost my mind watching my 10 month-old granddaughter Lucy take her first step Sunday night.

  Of course, Pop-Pop wasn't in the room when Lucy took her "actual" first steps across the dinner table into her father John's arms.  I captured her "almost" first steps towards her mother, my daughter, Emily.  And then I heard the shouts a few minutes later when Lucy crossed the great divide from baby to toddler.

  It all changes from here.  It was wonderful while it lasted. But now my little Lucy has taken her first steps into that brave new world that awaits her.  A world of long walks and wonder at the shape of a leaf, or the eye of an ant. Her journey is just beginning, while mine is reaching its most exquisite stage, when a man can walk down the street knowing that he is holding hands with the most beautiful girl in the world. 

  BEFORE I KNEW IT SHE WAS WALKIN' NEXT TO ME singing do-wah-diddy-diddy-down-diddy-do.  Holding my hand just as natural as can be.  Singing do-wah-diddy-diddy-down-diddy-do.  I'm hers (I'M HERS!)  She's mine (SHE'S MINE!)   And it's gonna work out fine

  Oh, yeah.  The songs I have to teach this kid. .

I MISS THE SPECTRUM ALREADY, even though it won't officially close until next September. I guess it was the Friday night tribute to 76er's championship teams of 1966-67 and 1982-83 marked by the Sixers playing their last game ever on the Spectrum hardwood, even those these NBA players had never played a game in that storied arena before. But there they were, stars from Sixers glory years past, Doc and Moses, Marc Iavaroni, Earl Cureton, and the Jones brothers, Bobby and Wali, on hand beneath championship banners hanging from the rafters.

Julius Erving, looking grayer and more elegant than Morgan Freeman, had described the difference between the two buildings that share space on the southeast corner of Broad and Pattison. The Spectrum, Dr. J told reporters earlier that day, is like flying coach while the Wachovia Center nearby is like flying first class.

Maybe that's why I could never warm up to the Wachovia Center. It always seemed pricier, icier, more distant and quieter than the crazed friendly confines of the Spectrum in full roar during Sixers or Flyers games in the past,or even Phantoms or Wings indoor lacrosse games today. I'm old enough to remember when the only ice hockey in Philadelphia was played by a teram called the Ramblers in a place called the Arena under the el on Market Street in West Philly.

The Sixers championship run in 1966 began on the dead bounce parquet floors of Convention Hall before moving to the brand new Spectrum in March 1967, exactly 40 years ago. The new building got off to a rocky start , what with the Spectrum roof flying off at regular intervals during those early weeks. This was back during the days when Philadelphians seemed to embrace embarrassment and were almost eager to describe our city as "a national laughingstock." If you think we're Negadelphia today, you can't imagine the self-loathing vibrations so common in the years after the Phillies infamous collapse in 1964.

Ironically it was a bunch of dentally-challenged Canadians that began to lift Philadelphia out of its civic funk with back to back Stanley Cups in 1974 and 1975, and the Spectrum was at the heart of it. Then in 1976 there was that the epic showdown between the Flyers and the Soviet Army team. On national TV our Flyers out muscled and out hustled the Red Army, the reputed best ice hocky team in the world, and at the end the Spectrum scoreboard flashed the message, "Bring on Mars!" That same year Rocky made the cinema Spectrum a symbol of the spirit of a city and a people determined to go the distance.

SOMETIMES ONE PICTURE tells a thousand words. This "no need for a caption" picture happened at Broad and Chestnut Sts. in Center City.

But -- and you should pardon the pun - just because I have nothing to add about this photo, that doesn't mean Sir Mix Alot didn't have something to say about the same subject:

"I LIKE BIG BUTTS . . . and I can not lie
You other brothers can't deny
That when a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist
And a round thing in your face
You get sprung
Wanna pull up tough
Cuz you notice that butt was stuffed
Deep in the jeans she's wearing
I'm hooked and I can't stop staring
Oh, baby I wanna get with ya
And take your picture
My homeboys tried to warn me
But that butt you got
Make Me so horney
Ooh, rump of smooth skin
You say you wanna get in my benz
Well use me use me cuz you aint that average groupy

I've seen them dancin'
To hell with romancin'
She's Sweat,Wet, got it goin like a turbo vette

I'm tired of magazines
Saying flat butts are the thing
Take the average black man and ask him that
She gotta pack much back

So Fellas (yeah) Fellas(yeah)
Has your girlfriend got the butt (hell yeah)
Well shake it, shake it, shake it, shake it, shake that healthy butt
Baby got back

(LA face with Oakland booty)

I like'em round and big
And when I'm throwin a gig
I just can't help myself
I'm actin like an animal
Now here's my scandal

I wanna get you home
And UH, double up UH UH
I aint talkin bout playboy
Cuz silicone parts were made for toys
I wannem real thick and juicy
So find that juicy double
Mixalot's in trouble
Beggin for a piece of that bubble
So I'm lookin' at rock videos
Knockin these bimbos walkin like hoes
You can have them bimbos
I'll keep my women like Flo Jo
A word to the thick soul sistas
I wanna get with ya
I won't cus or hit ya
But I gotta be straight when I say I wanna --
Til the break of dawn
Baby Got it goin on
Alot of pimps won't like this song
Cuz them punks lie to hit it and quit it
But I'd rather stay and play
Cuz I'm long and I'm strong
And I'm down to get the friction on

So ladies (yeah), Ladies (yeah)
Do you wanna roll in my Mercedes (yeah)
Then turn around
Stick it out
Even white boys got to shout
Baby got back

(LA face with the Oakland booty)

Yeah baby
When it comes to females
Cosmo ain't got nothin to do with my selection
36-24-36
Only if she's 5'3"

So your girlfriend throws a Honda
Playin workout tapes by Fonda
But Fonda ain't got a motor in the back of her Honda
My anaconda don't want none unless you've got buns hun
You can do side bends or sit-ups, but please don't lose that butt
Some brothers wanna play that hard role
And tell you that the butt ain't gold
So they toss it and leave it
And I pull up quick to retrieve it
So cosmo says you're fat
Well I ain't down with that
Cuz your waste is small and your curves are kickin
And I'm thinkin bout stickin
To the beanpole dames in the magazines
You aint it miss thing
Give me a sista I can't resist her
Red beans and rice did miss her
Some knucklehead tried to dis
Cuz his girls were on my list
He had game but he chose to hit 'em
And pulled up quick to get with 'em
So ladies if the butt is round
And you wanna triple X throw down
Dial 1-900-MIXALOT and kick them nasty thoughts
Baby got back
Baby got back
Little in tha middle but she got much back x4

I'LL TELL YOU WHY Vince Fumo is going to be convicted by the jury currently considering his guilt or innocence on 137 charges of abuse of power. It's because no mother would want a son to disappoint her so much. And Fumo is being judged by a jury consisting of 10 women along with two men, all of whom have heard, chapter and verse, about things that would shame a mother. The sins of arrogance and pride, the loss of perspective about what is right and what is not right, the fall from grace by a brilliant man because he thought he was beyond falling. Testimony during the epic trial that began before the Phillies won the World Series has revealed the son for the man he became, an insecure bully of staff and loved ones, a clueless tyrant who compared his misdeeds to spitting on the sidewalk, and excused his paranoia about a former girlfriend that led to him hire a private investigator to stalk her by explaining to the court that he -- Vince Fumo -- is terribly shy.

Bull-shy. Fumo may be socially inept but "shyness" does not accurately describe his single minded quest for power or appliances or yacht trips or control over others. The case of the People versus Vince Fumo was settled long ago by the people's court of Philadelphia. The verdict: the guy is a vindictive creep. The creep factor has loomed large in this trial, from the ALL CAPS profanity laced emails, to his compulsive acquisition of vacuum cleaners for each room of his mansion, to the private eye tailing his ex, to the tax-payer paid staffers and equipment dispatched to hoist a flag at his Jersey shore summer home, to the weird relationship between him and two older men -- "surrogate fathers" -- one who gave him a million dollars to settle a divorce, the other who testified against him in court. And then there were his favorite initials, OPM, for Other People's Money. LOL.

But creepiest of all was the former state senator's testimony in his own defense. "I did what I did," he said in open court about things most of us would whisper to a priest in confession. Here was the self-proclaimed most powerful Democratic politician in Pennsylvania describing his duties to the chamber he represented and the people he served, "My only obligation as a senator is to go to Harrisburg and vote." And then there was his Whopper Junior moment when instead of shouting, "I wish I'd never been broiled" he said, "In retrospect, I wish I never got elected to the senate." Et tu, Vincenzo?

Check out this view.

PLEASE EXCUSE THE IRONY. Here's my column for Monday's Metro:

I love the Philadelphia Inquirer. I love the Daily News. If it's possible for a person to love an inanimate object, I love newspapers -- like the one you're holding right now. (Unless you're reading this on line, which, of course, kills that last sentence. Literally.) As we march toward the future, the newspaper business feels as icy and unforgiving as the end of February without the promise of April.

The owners of the Inquirer and Daily News have filed for bankruptcy and newspapers across the country are quaking. On Friday one of the oldest daily newspapers in the country, the Rocky Mountain News, stopped the presses forever after publishing for 150 years. There's not a man or woman who works for a newspaper anywhere in America who feels certain of anything other than that times are going to get worse before they get better.

If they get better. And if and when they do, there will be fewer of us around to say to each other, "See, I told you it was going to work out."

I teach journalism at Montgomery County Community College and sometimes I feel like a foreman at a buggy whip factory preparing my students for a vanishing industry. I tell them the truth, of course. We talk of the bankruptcies of some of the largest daily newspapers in the United States from San Francisco to Chicago to Philadelphia, but at the age of 18 or 20, what do they know? What do I know for that matter? I've never lived through times like these before. I have no "wisdom" to impart about better days ahead for the dead tree media.

My friend Dan Rubin wrote a column in the Inquirer the other day assessing the set of skills he's amassed in an adult lifetime as a print journalist that have prepared him for the job opportunities available in the 21st Century, and his answer, if I may paraphrase, was, "You want fries with that?"

We few. We unhappy fewer and fewer. We ink-stained band of brothers and sisters who have dedicated our lives to a notion called journalism.

We feel as outnumberd by our times and technology as the English at Agincourt six centuries ago. We know we can -- we must -- prevail, but on this battle-weary muddy March morning we feel as numb to the future as King Harry's troops against the onslaught of the armored French cavalry. And into that bleak future we defiantly bark behind our barricade of sharpened pencils, "We are but warriors for the working day. Our gayness and our gilt are all besmirched by rainy marching in the painful fields. But in the mass our hearts are in the trim."

Why? Because we love newspapers. Including the one you're reading.