Archive for the 'Philadelphia' Category



19
Sep
10

Naming Rights

AT&T StationSEPTA just changed the name of one of its subway stations to AT&T. It’s not the End Times, but it is a little odd.

It makes sense that AT&T would want this. They provide cell service underground, which is pretty cool. They have a huge marketing budget. So, give them ad space down there. Give them sponsorship of a station, a logo on every sign and next to the station’s dot on the map, tiles that match the logo or the CEO’s grandmother’s favorite colors. Whatever. But changing the name of the station is just weird.

Stations are normally named after the streets they are located at or landmarks nearby because it makes sense for them to have some connection to the city they serve. Even if it were named after a corporation that had some kind of roots in Philadelphia — Aramark or Comcast or Sunoco — that would make more sense than AT&T.

Imagine using it in conversation: “I need to get off at AT&T.” “Transfer to a bus at AT&T.”

Conceivably, any number of stations could be called AT&T. How confusing would that be?

It’s different for something like a regional train station. Call that anything you want, it doesn’t matter. For all any traveler cares, 30th street station is just “Philadelphia.” Penn Station is “New York.” South Station is “Boston” and Union Station is “Chicago.” Their precise locations and names are less important.

But within a city, on a transit map, which is essential for intracity navigation, we need names that make sense. A geographical connection between the subway map and the geography it represents is kind of important. Or should we just give up on any sense of utility for SEPTA maps.

Of course this will continue. Advertisers need to work harder and be more clever if they are going to get to us. (AT&T’s best advertisement is the service it provides underground, not a logo on a map.) But I hope we can limit it in a way that makes sense.

10
Feb
10

Philly’s Snow Panic Brings out the Best and Worst

Over the recent weekend, Philadelphia got its second-worst snowfall ever (since they started keeping such records in the early 19th century). If forecasts are correct and we get another foot or more today, we’ll be on track to break a record for annual snowfall.

So, we pull on our boots and dig ourselves out.

With only 14 feet of sidewalk in front of our house, it’s no big deal to shovel and salt our walk and the neighbors’ on either side. On Sunday, half a dozen people on the block took up their shovels and started hacking at our tiny, narrow street. There’s no chance of getting a plow around the corner, so it’s down to us.

There was some real community spirit out there for a few minutes. I didn’t know anyone’s name, and we didn’t even all speak the same language, but we all had a common purpose. Kids were bouncing around like puppies. Neighbors were talking.

There are not many places you can shift two and a half feet of snow. There’s only so much room between the snowed-in cars parked along one side. We were forced to dump a lot of it on the curbs, knowing we’d have to tidy up the sidewalks again.

And then the daisy chain was broken.

Continue reading ‘Philly’s Snow Panic Brings out the Best and Worst’

29
Aug
09

In Memoriam: Joey Ruggiero

It’s one of life’s great cliches that everyone comes into your life for a reason. It does not always follow, however, that they go out of your life for a reason, too. Sometimes they just go, and it’s cruel, and it’s brutal.

I did not know Joey well. We met in January, and he was gone by mid-April. Every time I saw him in those brief months, he brought some new delight into my life &#8212 a fun, clever friend of his; a fabulous place for brunch; a ceramic two-tiered deviled egg serving tray.

Since his death, I have been remembering all of the “lasts.” You always remember those: the last tweet, the last Facebook update, the last photo I took of him, the last time he was at my house, the last time I was in his disastrously messy car.

Everything around me is a reminder, as if a trace of life is left behind everywhere he went, like a scent. Whenever I’m on South Street, I remember the last time he got new plugs for his ear lobes. RuPaul reminds me of him. Britney Spears reminds me of him. Blood oranges, enchiladas, Hello Kitty.

Our lasts were, in most cases, also firsts. The last meal we shared was at our annual Easter party, which we thought would be the first of many he would attend. It was at that party, he told us, that he had his first-ever green bean casserole. Also his last.

The lasts hurt so much because they’re a reminder of the obliterated potential. You decide to let someone into your life as a friend, and you can imagine how things will be years on: the holidays and birthdays, the summers and winters, the drunken nights out, the drunken nights in.

We have the lasts to be grateful for, but we can’t help but feel robbed of an undiscovered future and memories we never had a chance to make. And then we remember that the future that’s gone is his. We still have ours, and that’s more to be grateful for.

Sometimes I think we don’t really lose anybody. We just find them somewhere else. I find Joey continuously in the friends we inherited from him.

Joey collected people, and he carried a whole world with him. His was an exuberant life that spilled over into everyone around him. Like all is other possessions, we are left behind to be redistributed or to be gathered closer. We have chosen the latter.

Last week would have been his birthday. We had cake and champagne in his honor. And I saw once again how lucky we were to know him, and how grateful we should be for the people he brought to our lives.

We are all so different, and we all knew him for different reasons, but we all fit together. And wherever we go, he goes.

Rest in peace, friend.

24
Apr
09

A Sign of Desperation

A sign posted in the window of a modest business seen recently on Greys Ferry Avenue in Philadelphia:

CHECKS CASHED
MONEY ORDERS
KEROSENE

Almost poetry.

11
Mar
09

Cat and Mouse

Our cat discovered a mouse the other day. This in itself does not bother me. The benefit of having a house cat is to keep the mice away.

What is somewhat bothersome, however, is for Jeff to come home one day to catch her in the act of taunting a half-paralyzed rodent, batting it across the floor like a shuffleboard disc. The human intrusion distracted the cat just long enough for her prey to crawl under the refrigerator to die in peace.

So now we have a dead mouse somewhere under our fridge. This is not a terribly difficult problem to solve. But now I fear that our cat, starved for excitement in an environment not built for her, has re-awakened a carnivorous desire. She will remember those days spent outdoors in Minneapolis, before we moved her to this urban prison. And even though she may appear to be lying calmly on my lap, she will secretly always have one eye open and both ears tuned to the hunt.

There’ll be no living with her now.

19
Feb
09

Prodigal Datsun

Every day city dwellers see countless cars, and of those, remembers or even notices very few without blending them into the road salt- and bird shit-splattered canvas of urban living.

The other day, however, I went walkabout on the city’s brotherly streets and happened upon a vehicle that stood out to me as an unexpected childhood reminder: a Datsun 280ZX. You don’t often see this little gem of 1970s Japanese engineering. At least, I don’t. I wondered for a moment, as I noted the driver’s judicious use of The Club, where he or she gets parts.

Datsun 280ZX
A reminder of mom’s more carefree days.
[www.wikipedia.com]
Datsun 280ZX Matchbox car    
Vroom vroom!
[www.flickr.com]

It was my favorite Matchbox car, followed closely by that Italian model that served as the car mode for Wheeljack, of “Transformers” fame.

My parents had just such a Datsun when I was born. (It was the same smoky blue as the one I saw the other day.) It might have been my mom’s. I like to imagine her in a sports car, and I suppose it was a fine vehicle for a school teacher in her mid-20s. Then I came along. And so did the station wagons. And the only place for a fun car in my our lives was in my pocket.

27
Jan
09

No Vegetables After Midnight

At a diner in center city Philadelphia, the Midtown III Diner and Cocktail Lounge, a friend of mine was recently seated for an after-hours snack. As he picked up the menu, the waitress told him gruffly, “No vegetables after midnight.”

I wonder if that includes french fries and ketchup, or if he was forced to choke down a plate of bacon and liverwurst.




the untallied hours