She reached in the trunk and pulled out the customary brown shopping bag she always brought. In it, no doubt, were a few bottles of ginger ale, a couple trays of pecan swirls, and a half gallon of skim milk.
My first column is up at Change Seven Magazine. Have a look.
It’s rather amusing to think she had a girlhood crush on a guy who basically looks like a caricature of himself.
I’ve always been fascinated by Benjamin Franklin—a man who was basically the Swiss Army Knife of our founding fathers. Instead of tiny, foldable wrenches and miniature scissors, Ben was spring-loaded with piss and vinegar and political savvy and freaking electricity.
Here's a blast from the past that appeared in Philadelphia Stories a few years ago, but since it's baseball season and I miss the voice of Harry Kalas I figured I'd share it again. Enjoy, and viva la beisbol!!
If you pushed her far enough there was a chance you might catch a flying sandal to the chin. And her aim was lethal. She was like the Dennis Eckersley of moms.
I grew up in Laurel Springs, New Jersey but I always say “Philadelphia” when people ask where I’m from. It says so on my birth certificate and I’ll never budge on that.
The shrieks and the screams and the wild accusations shot across the beer hall like bullets. Bullets that I ducked and dodged on my way up to the stage and all the way out to the parking lot.
Ten minutes to cross town. Ten minutes-worth of car exhaust and sewer stench, and mustard-stained, pretzel wrappers that rise in ghostly notes against the brownstones. Ten minutes of peace. Ten minutes where I hide under headphones and nothing plays but the city--the tenor sax born of screechy brakes; the chorus spills from a corner cafe; … Continue reading Crosstown Transfer
We've learned nothing of tornado drilling in the past three hundred and sixty-four days. We've learned nothing at all.