Archive: August, 2009
The football team I've come to love just signed a fabulously gifted dog murderer.
The news that the Eagles signed Michael Vick has split me from a couple of my friends, real and virtual.
They think it’s a perfect fit.
I can't imagine seeing Vick explode down the field in green without picturing one of those poor dogs, doused with gasoline or hanging from a tree.
No wonder this sign on the door of the attorneys' file-review room in the Criminal Justice Center disappeared last week. It says "No Coping," not "No Copying."
How did I miss this?
Today's column chronicles some victims of the state's budget impasse: court-appointed defense lawyers. Ones I talked to hadn't been paid since May. Theses are low-overhead, high-volume sole practionners, many of them true believers in work that pays a tiny fraction of what their peers make in private practice.
The team was bad, famously bad, but Vinny Spanelli liked their chances anyway, because he was a 17-year-old street kid from South Philadelphia and they were his beloved Phillies.
That April in the Detroit Free Enterprise, beat writer Calvin J. Butterworth predicted another season in the cellar for the 1924 Philadelphia nine:
Decided to give my inbox a rest today. Nothing about cellphone bans, healthcare reforms or Cash for Clunkers.
Instead, today's metro column investigates a 75-year tradition in Downingtown's old Italian neighborhood, Johnsontown, where 1,000 men will gather for an event that celebrates what a group of kids with names like "Skid," "Sparrow" and "Muskie" did for dinner one day during the Great Depression.
They feasted on frog legs plucked from the Brandywine Creek.
We had an editor who was famous around these parts for informing an irate phone caller, "Madame, if you don't calm down, I'm going to have to cancel your subscription."
This comes to mind with my latest e-mail, from a retired General Motors employee, who decided his latest cost-cutting will come from ending his daily relationship to the Inquirer.
And this because of today's column, an ode to our 17-year-old clunker named Bessie, which ends with me buying a Honda.