This week, an acquaintance of mine was among the first to receive a $75 ticket for yakking away on her cell phone while driving through Center City. She was still pretty steamed about it when she called me Tuesday night.
She admitted that she knew about the new law, and even knew that police considered the grace period over and were about to go into mad ticket mode, but she still resented being flagged on the first day of enforcement.
As she went on and on about the unfairness of it all, I couldn’t help but notice the background noise on her end of the line sounded suspiciously like… traffic.
Hard headed, my grandmother used to call it – usually while describing me.
The law is in effect folks, and griping about it won’t help.
If you’re caught using your handheld phone while driving in Philly, it’s going to cost you $75. This applies to both talking and the increasingly popular text messaging. It also applies, by the way, to bicyclists, skateboarders, rollerbladers, and the people who ride those hideous little motorized scooters, the least dignified means of transportation ever devised. Ever seen anyone look cool while driving a pink Vespa? Neither have I.
Then Montgomery County attorney Philip Berg offered free legal services to anyone who wants to fight their newly minted citations in court.
This is the same Philip Berg, mind you, whose lawsuit against President Obama was thrown out of the Third Circuit Court of Appeals only a few weeks ago.
You remember the story: Berg sued the president, on behalf of crackpots everywhere, on the basis that Obama is not an American citizen, and is therefore ineligible to be elected President of the United States. These hate-filled lunatics, known as ‘birthers’, have spent the last two years screeching to anyone who will listen that Obama is actually a citizen of Kenya, or Indonesia, or wherever. This, despite the fact that President Obama’s Hawaiian birth certificate, along with every single detail of his entire life, can be easily accessed on the Internet.
And this is the guy you’re supposed to call for free legal representation? I’ll take my chances with Traffic Court, thanks anyway.
Berg’s latest argument on behalf of Philly’s cell phone scofflaws is that city ordinance can’t countermand state law, and the commonwealth has not yet banned the use of hand held devices while driving. While it’s true that the state legislature has been sitting on a similar ban for almost two years now with little action, the end may be in sight.
House Bill 2070, HB 1375 and Senate Bill 143 seek to ban texting while driving. The hope, in the end, is that the local municipalities will spur our state legislators to pass the bills. Also, an interesting amendment to HB 67 would expand the state's careless driving statute to include reckless driving caused by distractions including, eating, drinking, grooming and reading.
Countless polls have concluded that laws banning cell phone use while driving are favored by ordinary citizens, police, and even the insurance companies. Perhaps they should include another demographic: emergency room doctors. Here are the latest statistics from the National Transportation Safety Board, and they’re not pretty:
Talking on a cell phone causes nearly 25 percent of car accidents. Motorists who use cell phones while driving are four times more likely to get into crashes serious enough to injure themselves. An estimated 2,600 people die each year as a result of using cell phones while driving, with another 330,000 injured. And perhaps most frightening, 21 percent of all fatal car crashes involving teenagers between the ages of 16 and 19 were the result of cell phone usage. The NTSB expects this number to grow as much as four percent every year.
I applaud City Councilmen Bill Green, William K. Greenlee, and Frank Rizzo, who sponsored the bill, and the rest of City Council for approving it. Rarely does a city law apply directly to the health and safety of every citizen like this one does.
Yes, it’s a pain in the neck to pull over just for a short conversation, and true, those wireless earphone devices are not all they’re cracked up to be. But you only have to observe the erratic driving patters of motorists chatting away merrily on the phone to know that eventually, they’re going to kill someone.
And if it costs some stubborn folks like my friend $75 to get that through their heads, all the better. The city needs the money.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Thieves On Wheels
So, apparently our recently re-elected City Controller finally noticed that getting your car towed in Philadelphia by a private operator means getting the shaft – and not the driveshaft, either.
Controller Alan Butkovitz issued a scathing report earlier this week decrying the practices of towing companies operating in the city as “price gouging” and “predatory towing”.
If Butkovitz is surprised by the findings in his report, he’s all alone.
The city is chockablock with horror stories from motorists fleeced beyond comprehension by tow truck drivers who can swipe a vehicle in seconds, and the towing company owners, who hold that vehicle hostage for a king’s ransom. Walk into any barbershop, tavern, grocery store, or beauty parlor and bring up the subject with a random stranger. Not only will they chew your ear off for hours, everyone in the vicinity will join in – until the conversation resembles the game show “Can You Top This?” with each tale of agony progressively worse than the last.
If you’ve ever had your car towed, or accompanied some poor soul attempting to retrieve their car from these extortionists, it’s an experience you’re not likely to forget – sort of like being robbed and beaten by muggers. In fact, tow truck companies and muggers have a lot in common.
Both strike when you least expect it and can least afford it. Both find particular joy in taking advantage of the most vulnerable victims. But mostly, both tow truck companies and muggers leave you with the same feeling – wounded, violated, bewildered, and flat broke.
The Controller’s report is a stinging 37-page indictment of all the city’s major towing operators, and of Philadelphia’s Department of Licenses and Inspections, whose job it is to regulate these thieving pirates. L & I’s enforcement of city code with regard to these predatory towing companies, as you can imagine, has been pitiful. You can view the full report at www.philadelphiacontroller.org.
The report - an engrossing page-turner, by the way – is such an incredible insight into the city’s underbelly of greed, corruption, and incompetence, that it would be downright funny if not for the fact that we’re the ones paying for it.
Tow companies are allowed by city code to charge $150 for towing fees. An exorbitant price, to be sure, and enough to keep any honest businessman happy – but not enough if you’re a thief. These bandits routinely go above and beyond, charging up to $200 for towing, in addition to tacking on other phantom fees for labor and equipment. And this in addition to their usual $25 per day storage fee, a pickpocket scam if ever there was one.
City code also mandates that towing companies take credit and debit cards as payment. Even the operators themselves laugh openly at this one. Several owners told reporters this week that not only are they going to continue to demand cash only, no one can stop them.
The report was accompanied by two responses from the relevant department heads, Police Commissioner Charles Ramsey and L & I Commissioner Fran Burns.
Ramsey is all for stricter enforcement of towing operators because police are often called when disputes arise between tow truck operators and enraged car owners. While he doesn’t have the actual numbers of incidents, it happens often enough to impact police readiness.
Here’s an excerpt from page 8 of the report, to give you some perspective: “Private parking towing operations provide opportunity for unscrupulous operators, under cover of their private parking enforcement authority, to steal private automobiles. As a result, the Police Department has spent considerable time and effort to monitor and control these operations to prevent vehicle thefts.”
Note the Controller’s language. They’re not illegally towing vehicles, they’re stealing vehicles. And we’re expending valuable police manpower trying to stop them.
L & I Commissioner Fran Burns’ response was to say that her department is improving its ability to track towing violations, and she hadn’t gotten an overwhelming number of complaints from citizens. I’m guessing at L & I, ‘improving’ means going from nonexistent enforcement to lax enforcement.
Fine. If that’s the way she wants it, then let’s do it.
Flood L & I with your complaints. Bombard that new 311 number city managers are so keen on using.
Every towing sign you see with more than $150 in fees, call 311. If your car was towed illegally, call 311. Every time one of these crooks tries to jack up the fee on you, call 311.
Call your city councilperson, call your state rep, and complain to anyone in power who will listen.
The car you save might be your own.
Controller Alan Butkovitz issued a scathing report earlier this week decrying the practices of towing companies operating in the city as “price gouging” and “predatory towing”.
If Butkovitz is surprised by the findings in his report, he’s all alone.
The city is chockablock with horror stories from motorists fleeced beyond comprehension by tow truck drivers who can swipe a vehicle in seconds, and the towing company owners, who hold that vehicle hostage for a king’s ransom. Walk into any barbershop, tavern, grocery store, or beauty parlor and bring up the subject with a random stranger. Not only will they chew your ear off for hours, everyone in the vicinity will join in – until the conversation resembles the game show “Can You Top This?” with each tale of agony progressively worse than the last.
If you’ve ever had your car towed, or accompanied some poor soul attempting to retrieve their car from these extortionists, it’s an experience you’re not likely to forget – sort of like being robbed and beaten by muggers. In fact, tow truck companies and muggers have a lot in common.
Both strike when you least expect it and can least afford it. Both find particular joy in taking advantage of the most vulnerable victims. But mostly, both tow truck companies and muggers leave you with the same feeling – wounded, violated, bewildered, and flat broke.
The Controller’s report is a stinging 37-page indictment of all the city’s major towing operators, and of Philadelphia’s Department of Licenses and Inspections, whose job it is to regulate these thieving pirates. L & I’s enforcement of city code with regard to these predatory towing companies, as you can imagine, has been pitiful. You can view the full report at www.philadelphiacontroller.org.
The report - an engrossing page-turner, by the way – is such an incredible insight into the city’s underbelly of greed, corruption, and incompetence, that it would be downright funny if not for the fact that we’re the ones paying for it.
Tow companies are allowed by city code to charge $150 for towing fees. An exorbitant price, to be sure, and enough to keep any honest businessman happy – but not enough if you’re a thief. These bandits routinely go above and beyond, charging up to $200 for towing, in addition to tacking on other phantom fees for labor and equipment. And this in addition to their usual $25 per day storage fee, a pickpocket scam if ever there was one.
City code also mandates that towing companies take credit and debit cards as payment. Even the operators themselves laugh openly at this one. Several owners told reporters this week that not only are they going to continue to demand cash only, no one can stop them.
The report was accompanied by two responses from the relevant department heads, Police Commissioner Charles Ramsey and L & I Commissioner Fran Burns.
Ramsey is all for stricter enforcement of towing operators because police are often called when disputes arise between tow truck operators and enraged car owners. While he doesn’t have the actual numbers of incidents, it happens often enough to impact police readiness.
Here’s an excerpt from page 8 of the report, to give you some perspective: “Private parking towing operations provide opportunity for unscrupulous operators, under cover of their private parking enforcement authority, to steal private automobiles. As a result, the Police Department has spent considerable time and effort to monitor and control these operations to prevent vehicle thefts.”
Note the Controller’s language. They’re not illegally towing vehicles, they’re stealing vehicles. And we’re expending valuable police manpower trying to stop them.
L & I Commissioner Fran Burns’ response was to say that her department is improving its ability to track towing violations, and she hadn’t gotten an overwhelming number of complaints from citizens. I’m guessing at L & I, ‘improving’ means going from nonexistent enforcement to lax enforcement.
Fine. If that’s the way she wants it, then let’s do it.
Flood L & I with your complaints. Bombard that new 311 number city managers are so keen on using.
Every towing sign you see with more than $150 in fees, call 311. If your car was towed illegally, call 311. Every time one of these crooks tries to jack up the fee on you, call 311.
Call your city councilperson, call your state rep, and complain to anyone in power who will listen.
The car you save might be your own.
Friday, October 16, 2009
The Truth Shall Set You Free
Let us stop dancing around the truth for a minute and address the naked facts: There are certain people in this country who will never, ever, accept the notion of Barack Obama as the legally elected president of these not-so-United States.
They howl in agreement when mouth breathers like Rush Limbaugh suggest the president may not have been born in this country, and gleefully parrot partisan hacks Sean Hannity and Glenn Beck, who shamelessly float the notion that Obama may be a radical Islamic sympathizer who secretly hates all white people - including, presumably, half the man’s own family.
Nothing he does will ever be good enough, and they highly resent his nationwide (and worldwide) popularity. His recent award of the Nobel Peace Prize, which he himself questions as appropriate, is taken as a deliberate attempt to lionize a president who has not yet earned the accolades pouring into the White House.
As an example, take the recent story originating just across the river in Burlington County, New Jersey.
It seems that during a school assembly way back on March 23, second graders of the B. Bernice Young Elementary School were videotaped singing a couple of tunes they had learned a month earlier, during Black History Month. While other classes sang songs commemorating U.S. presidents George Washington and Abraham Lincoln, one class sang their songs about the current officeholder.
The songs, whose lyrics were adapted to praise the life and accomplishments of Barack Obama, created an Internet sensation, which grew into a national firestorm more than six months later. Here is a sample of the heresy:
“Barack Hussein Obama / He said that all must lend a hand / To make this country strong again.”
Horrified beyond consolation, the right wing sprang into action half a year late. Conservative loudmouth Limbaugh went apoplectic. Fox News’ resident maniac Beck launched into his signature act: crying real tears on-air while braying like a wounded mule about the socialist indoctrination of innocent schoolchildren.
The result was that just last Monday about 70 wing nuts, representing every element of the lunatic fringe from the appropriately-named Teabaggers to Beck’s certifiably mad 9/12 group, marched in protest at the school, carrying signs that read, “Education not indoctrination” and "Free children, free minds.”
You can choose, if you like, to buy the protesters’ story that they are simply good government and education advocates, only interested in the intellectual welfare of the children. I choose rather to believe they’re a bunch of fanatical, frothing-at-the-mouth crackpots who lack the integrity to stand behind their own racial hatred.
They remind me of the membership of the Valley Club who created a stir this summer by denying swimming privileges to a group of summer campers who happened to be the wrong color.
“It has nothing to do with racism,” they reply huffily, all the while angrily questioning the presence of ‘those people’ in places they clearly don’t belong. Places like a previously all-white swim club, and a previously all-White House.
What burns me most, I’ve decided, is not even the dangerous fanatics themselves, but the white folks who know their true motives and intentions but choose to remain silent.
Anxious to remove the stain of racism and discrimination from the nation’s consciousness, they willingly accept the weak “It has nothing to do with racism” defense at face value, knowing in their hearts that it has everything to do with racism.
That is not to say that every white person who disagrees with the president is a racist. There are legitimate differences of opinion regarding Obama’s policies on health care reform, economic recovery, and the allocation of our military, just to name a few. The loyal opposition should feel free to express their opinions and suggestions on these important issues without fear of being branded racist for simply bringing up the subject.
But those aren’t the people we’re talking about here. We’re talking about those with a far deeper (dare we say darker?) underlying principle: ’those people’ should know their place.
I further understand the argument that former president George W. Bush didn’t exactly get a free ride from his detractors.
However, as one of those detractors, I’m more than willing to stand behind my animosity toward the White House during the Bush years, and I further admit that my dislike for the former president is predicated on two basic factors which are strictly my own opinion: he stole the office, and he’s stupid.
I challenge the 9/12ers and the Teabaggers to admit the real reasons for their hatred of Barack Obama.
They howl in agreement when mouth breathers like Rush Limbaugh suggest the president may not have been born in this country, and gleefully parrot partisan hacks Sean Hannity and Glenn Beck, who shamelessly float the notion that Obama may be a radical Islamic sympathizer who secretly hates all white people - including, presumably, half the man’s own family.
Nothing he does will ever be good enough, and they highly resent his nationwide (and worldwide) popularity. His recent award of the Nobel Peace Prize, which he himself questions as appropriate, is taken as a deliberate attempt to lionize a president who has not yet earned the accolades pouring into the White House.
As an example, take the recent story originating just across the river in Burlington County, New Jersey.
It seems that during a school assembly way back on March 23, second graders of the B. Bernice Young Elementary School were videotaped singing a couple of tunes they had learned a month earlier, during Black History Month. While other classes sang songs commemorating U.S. presidents George Washington and Abraham Lincoln, one class sang their songs about the current officeholder.
The songs, whose lyrics were adapted to praise the life and accomplishments of Barack Obama, created an Internet sensation, which grew into a national firestorm more than six months later. Here is a sample of the heresy:
“Barack Hussein Obama / He said that all must lend a hand / To make this country strong again.”
Horrified beyond consolation, the right wing sprang into action half a year late. Conservative loudmouth Limbaugh went apoplectic. Fox News’ resident maniac Beck launched into his signature act: crying real tears on-air while braying like a wounded mule about the socialist indoctrination of innocent schoolchildren.
The result was that just last Monday about 70 wing nuts, representing every element of the lunatic fringe from the appropriately-named Teabaggers to Beck’s certifiably mad 9/12 group, marched in protest at the school, carrying signs that read, “Education not indoctrination” and "Free children, free minds.”
You can choose, if you like, to buy the protesters’ story that they are simply good government and education advocates, only interested in the intellectual welfare of the children. I choose rather to believe they’re a bunch of fanatical, frothing-at-the-mouth crackpots who lack the integrity to stand behind their own racial hatred.
They remind me of the membership of the Valley Club who created a stir this summer by denying swimming privileges to a group of summer campers who happened to be the wrong color.
“It has nothing to do with racism,” they reply huffily, all the while angrily questioning the presence of ‘those people’ in places they clearly don’t belong. Places like a previously all-white swim club, and a previously all-White House.
What burns me most, I’ve decided, is not even the dangerous fanatics themselves, but the white folks who know their true motives and intentions but choose to remain silent.
Anxious to remove the stain of racism and discrimination from the nation’s consciousness, they willingly accept the weak “It has nothing to do with racism” defense at face value, knowing in their hearts that it has everything to do with racism.
That is not to say that every white person who disagrees with the president is a racist. There are legitimate differences of opinion regarding Obama’s policies on health care reform, economic recovery, and the allocation of our military, just to name a few. The loyal opposition should feel free to express their opinions and suggestions on these important issues without fear of being branded racist for simply bringing up the subject.
But those aren’t the people we’re talking about here. We’re talking about those with a far deeper (dare we say darker?) underlying principle: ’those people’ should know their place.
I further understand the argument that former president George W. Bush didn’t exactly get a free ride from his detractors.
However, as one of those detractors, I’m more than willing to stand behind my animosity toward the White House during the Bush years, and I further admit that my dislike for the former president is predicated on two basic factors which are strictly my own opinion: he stole the office, and he’s stupid.
I challenge the 9/12ers and the Teabaggers to admit the real reasons for their hatred of Barack Obama.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Lock ‘Em Up and Cash the Check
When a jury handed down the guilty verdicts this week in the subway beating case, Philadelphia-area bloggers and crime watchers breathed a collective sigh of relief.
You know the well-publicized story: 36-year old Sean Patrick Conroy, a Starbucks coffee shop manager, was walking underground in the Market-Frankford El concourse on the afternoon of March 26, 2008, headed to work just up the stairs at 13th and Market streets.
Conroy was met by a group of teenagers, all playing hooky from Simon Gratz High School, wandering around downtown and looking for something to do.
On one of those stupid if-you-don’t-do-it-you’re-a-punk type teenage dares, Arthur Alston, Ameer Best, Rasheem Bell, Nashir Fisher, and Kinta Stanton, jumped Conroy, beating him until he was on his knees gasping for breath.
Although the attack was witnessed by a SEPTA police officer, by the time he got across the platform, the teens had scattered. Only Stanton was arrested at the scene. Also by the time the officer arrived seconds later, Sean Patrick Conroy was in fatal distress. The stress of the beating had triggered an asthma attack, and Conroy died at the hospital.
The five teems were arrested, and as happens often in these cases, they immediately turned on each other. Bell and Alston pleaded guilty to third-degree murder and conspiracy, with Bell agreeing to testify against his buddies at trial in exchange for a lighter sentence.
The others each claimed to be a non-combative bystander who watched while the others did the beating and kicking. In the end, the jury didn’t buy the finger pointing and convicted them of conspiracy and third degree murder. All the teens face a mandatory minimum of five years, with a maximum that could keep them behind bars until they are very old men.
Immediately the self-satisfied “throw away the key” crowd wrote triumphant posts on local message boards, positively giddy that these “animals” and “savages” would no longer plague society.
I don’t think it stands in the way of justice to say that while we should be grateful that these criminals will be made to pay for their crimes, we should also be mindful of who else is paying a heavy price – us.
In so many ways, these five young men represent an entire generation of young black men in deep, desperate trouble. Our communities have become little more than places for our young men to hang out between periods of incarceration, and we watch helplessly as they are used by the American system of justice for fun and profit.
They are, in fact, worth more to society as inmates.
Too harsh? A horrible thing to think, let alone say out loud?
Ponder this: While the state’s general population stagnated over the past nine years, Pennsylvania's prison population swelled by nearly 40 percent, prompting state officials to take an old prison out of mothballs, farm inmates out to county jails and house some prisoners in pre-fab modular units set up in prison yards.
The state legislature allocated funds for four new prisons at a cost of $200 million each in last year's capital budget, and the state's corrections budget has increased by 50 percent — from $1.2 billion to an estimated $1.8 billion — since the beginning of the decade.
Contrast that $1.8 billion for prisons with the $1.59 billion the legislature allocated for higher education, and you get about $33,000 per prisoner per year, compared to $4,000 per college student per year.
According to state-by-state studies backed by the Washington, D.C.-based Justice Policy Institute, there are about 22,000 African-American males incarcerated in Pennsylvania, and about 19,000 African-American men enrolled in Pennsylvania colleges and universities. That represents an increase over the past 25 years of 5,000 more black students, but 15,000 more black inmates.
Factor in the thousands of jobs created by the prison industry statewide- everything from construction, maintenance, prison guards and support personnel – then count those millions in fat contracts for every prison service from food to clothing to health care – and it isn’t much of a stretch to start thinking there’s a lot more profit in incarceration than there is in rehabilitation or prevention.
Those five young men are now officially part of a justice system in which politicians will use them as boogeymen to strike fear into the hearts of ordinary citizens - who will then hand over suitcases full of taxpayer money to those politicians, with little oversight and with no questions asked, just to keep these "savages" away from the rest of us.
Yet, somehow, we feel safer.
You know the well-publicized story: 36-year old Sean Patrick Conroy, a Starbucks coffee shop manager, was walking underground in the Market-Frankford El concourse on the afternoon of March 26, 2008, headed to work just up the stairs at 13th and Market streets.
Conroy was met by a group of teenagers, all playing hooky from Simon Gratz High School, wandering around downtown and looking for something to do.
On one of those stupid if-you-don’t-do-it-you’re-a-punk type teenage dares, Arthur Alston, Ameer Best, Rasheem Bell, Nashir Fisher, and Kinta Stanton, jumped Conroy, beating him until he was on his knees gasping for breath.
Although the attack was witnessed by a SEPTA police officer, by the time he got across the platform, the teens had scattered. Only Stanton was arrested at the scene. Also by the time the officer arrived seconds later, Sean Patrick Conroy was in fatal distress. The stress of the beating had triggered an asthma attack, and Conroy died at the hospital.
The five teems were arrested, and as happens often in these cases, they immediately turned on each other. Bell and Alston pleaded guilty to third-degree murder and conspiracy, with Bell agreeing to testify against his buddies at trial in exchange for a lighter sentence.
The others each claimed to be a non-combative bystander who watched while the others did the beating and kicking. In the end, the jury didn’t buy the finger pointing and convicted them of conspiracy and third degree murder. All the teens face a mandatory minimum of five years, with a maximum that could keep them behind bars until they are very old men.
Immediately the self-satisfied “throw away the key” crowd wrote triumphant posts on local message boards, positively giddy that these “animals” and “savages” would no longer plague society.
I don’t think it stands in the way of justice to say that while we should be grateful that these criminals will be made to pay for their crimes, we should also be mindful of who else is paying a heavy price – us.
In so many ways, these five young men represent an entire generation of young black men in deep, desperate trouble. Our communities have become little more than places for our young men to hang out between periods of incarceration, and we watch helplessly as they are used by the American system of justice for fun and profit.
They are, in fact, worth more to society as inmates.
Too harsh? A horrible thing to think, let alone say out loud?
Ponder this: While the state’s general population stagnated over the past nine years, Pennsylvania's prison population swelled by nearly 40 percent, prompting state officials to take an old prison out of mothballs, farm inmates out to county jails and house some prisoners in pre-fab modular units set up in prison yards.
The state legislature allocated funds for four new prisons at a cost of $200 million each in last year's capital budget, and the state's corrections budget has increased by 50 percent — from $1.2 billion to an estimated $1.8 billion — since the beginning of the decade.
Contrast that $1.8 billion for prisons with the $1.59 billion the legislature allocated for higher education, and you get about $33,000 per prisoner per year, compared to $4,000 per college student per year.
According to state-by-state studies backed by the Washington, D.C.-based Justice Policy Institute, there are about 22,000 African-American males incarcerated in Pennsylvania, and about 19,000 African-American men enrolled in Pennsylvania colleges and universities. That represents an increase over the past 25 years of 5,000 more black students, but 15,000 more black inmates.
Factor in the thousands of jobs created by the prison industry statewide- everything from construction, maintenance, prison guards and support personnel – then count those millions in fat contracts for every prison service from food to clothing to health care – and it isn’t much of a stretch to start thinking there’s a lot more profit in incarceration than there is in rehabilitation or prevention.
Those five young men are now officially part of a justice system in which politicians will use them as boogeymen to strike fear into the hearts of ordinary citizens - who will then hand over suitcases full of taxpayer money to those politicians, with little oversight and with no questions asked, just to keep these "savages" away from the rest of us.
Yet, somehow, we feel safer.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
The Fightin’ Phils’ Fightin’ Fans
With the World Champion Philadelphia Phillies tearing up the National League East, and its All-Star lineup poised for a (dare we say it aloud?) World Series repeat – you just had to know the focus of the entire city would be on Citizen’s Bank Park these days.
This week, though – the focus is not so much on the Broad Street Brawlers as it is the brawlers outside on Broad Street.
By now, you have surely heard of David Sale, the 22-year old from Lansdale caught in the drunken fury of liquored-up white guys. Sale and his friends were partying at the game when they came up against a different group of boozehounds, drinking their way down to the stadium from Moe’s Tavern in Fishtown.
Beer was spilled, words – then punches – were exchanged, and both groups were ejected from McFadden’s, the bar attached to the stadium, to continue their disagreement in the parking lot.
By the time the disagreement was settled, so was David Sale. Beaten and stomped to a fare-thee-well, Sale succumbed to his injuries a few hours later at the hospital. Three of the Fishtowners, James Groves 45, Charles Bowers, 35, and Francis Kirchner, 28, have been arrested and charged with homicide.
Since then, the pundits, bloggers and talking heads have been playing The Blame Game hot and heavy. It’s the Phillies’ management’s fault for making copious quantities of alcohol available to the drunken hooligans who buy tickets, it’s McFadden’s fault for not cutting the lushes off sooner, and it’s the Police Department’s fault for not responding to the fight sooner, considering the number of officers on duty there at the stadium for any given game.
Well, it’s partly all of the above, but not to any great degree.
The Phillies’ organization cuts beer sales off after the sixth inning, so McFadden’s is the popular place to go to continue drinking. But in all fairness to McFadden’s, I have seen the numbers of drunken Phillies’ fans who spill drinks, break glasses, cause a ruckus, and generally stumble about the place on game days. They have plenty of security, but there’s no way to keep up. Ditto the cops. There’s just no way to be everywhere at once, monitoring every drunken fool in the vicinity.
The lion’s share of blame – who’s really at fault here – belongs to the drunken white guys themselves.
Now, I do not use that term lightly. I spent six years in the military in my younger days - as a sailor, no less. I have seen, and participated in, quite a few rowdy bar fights; and I believe I’m as well qualified as anyone to recognize the inherent danger of the drunken white guy, known scientifically as Caucasius Stupidus.
If you were ever in the armed forces, or a college fraternity for that matter, you can back me up here. Take five or six testosterone-filled white guys, get them all juiced up on beer, Jack Daniel’s and Lynard Skynard, then put them in a setting with similar groups of drunken white guys. Fifteen rebel yells later, somebody spills a beer on somebody, somebody steps on somebody’s foot, or somebody jokes that Ronald Reagan, John Wayne, or Elvis was probably gay.
Seconds later, you have pandemonium.
If you’ve never been in an actual bar fight, it really is something to see. The amount of carnage and havoc these guys can create in just a short time staggers the imagination. And usually, the bleeding and injured are left on the field of battle while the able-bodied stagger away. I’ve never seen anyone killed, but I sure understand how easily it could happen.
This is a brand of violence our society is not prepared to address.
If it’s Black teenage thugs with guns, well, as a society, we know how to deal with that. Lock them up and throw away the key. If its sickos hurting children, we first beat them to a pulp, then lock them up and throw away the key. But drunken white guys? They’re your plumber, your electrician, your friendly neighbor who lent you his lawn mower. We can’t start throwing away the key on them too, can we?
Damn right, we can.
It’s long past time for Caucasius Stupidus to take his rightful place among our society’s worst elements - unless you’re willing to argue that a senseless killing with an idiotic motive at Broad and Pattison is somehow different from a senseless killing with an idiotic motive at 58th and Baltimore.
This week, though – the focus is not so much on the Broad Street Brawlers as it is the brawlers outside on Broad Street.
By now, you have surely heard of David Sale, the 22-year old from Lansdale caught in the drunken fury of liquored-up white guys. Sale and his friends were partying at the game when they came up against a different group of boozehounds, drinking their way down to the stadium from Moe’s Tavern in Fishtown.
Beer was spilled, words – then punches – were exchanged, and both groups were ejected from McFadden’s, the bar attached to the stadium, to continue their disagreement in the parking lot.
By the time the disagreement was settled, so was David Sale. Beaten and stomped to a fare-thee-well, Sale succumbed to his injuries a few hours later at the hospital. Three of the Fishtowners, James Groves 45, Charles Bowers, 35, and Francis Kirchner, 28, have been arrested and charged with homicide.
Since then, the pundits, bloggers and talking heads have been playing The Blame Game hot and heavy. It’s the Phillies’ management’s fault for making copious quantities of alcohol available to the drunken hooligans who buy tickets, it’s McFadden’s fault for not cutting the lushes off sooner, and it’s the Police Department’s fault for not responding to the fight sooner, considering the number of officers on duty there at the stadium for any given game.
Well, it’s partly all of the above, but not to any great degree.
The Phillies’ organization cuts beer sales off after the sixth inning, so McFadden’s is the popular place to go to continue drinking. But in all fairness to McFadden’s, I have seen the numbers of drunken Phillies’ fans who spill drinks, break glasses, cause a ruckus, and generally stumble about the place on game days. They have plenty of security, but there’s no way to keep up. Ditto the cops. There’s just no way to be everywhere at once, monitoring every drunken fool in the vicinity.
The lion’s share of blame – who’s really at fault here – belongs to the drunken white guys themselves.
Now, I do not use that term lightly. I spent six years in the military in my younger days - as a sailor, no less. I have seen, and participated in, quite a few rowdy bar fights; and I believe I’m as well qualified as anyone to recognize the inherent danger of the drunken white guy, known scientifically as Caucasius Stupidus.
If you were ever in the armed forces, or a college fraternity for that matter, you can back me up here. Take five or six testosterone-filled white guys, get them all juiced up on beer, Jack Daniel’s and Lynard Skynard, then put them in a setting with similar groups of drunken white guys. Fifteen rebel yells later, somebody spills a beer on somebody, somebody steps on somebody’s foot, or somebody jokes that Ronald Reagan, John Wayne, or Elvis was probably gay.
Seconds later, you have pandemonium.
If you’ve never been in an actual bar fight, it really is something to see. The amount of carnage and havoc these guys can create in just a short time staggers the imagination. And usually, the bleeding and injured are left on the field of battle while the able-bodied stagger away. I’ve never seen anyone killed, but I sure understand how easily it could happen.
This is a brand of violence our society is not prepared to address.
If it’s Black teenage thugs with guns, well, as a society, we know how to deal with that. Lock them up and throw away the key. If its sickos hurting children, we first beat them to a pulp, then lock them up and throw away the key. But drunken white guys? They’re your plumber, your electrician, your friendly neighbor who lent you his lawn mower. We can’t start throwing away the key on them too, can we?
Damn right, we can.
It’s long past time for Caucasius Stupidus to take his rightful place among our society’s worst elements - unless you’re willing to argue that a senseless killing with an idiotic motive at Broad and Pattison is somehow different from a senseless killing with an idiotic motive at 58th and Baltimore.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Scared Straight
Every once in a while, something happens that changes your entire perspective. One isolated incident, by itself nearly overlooked, which causes you rethink an entire philosophy to which you were once zealously committed.
So it was for me with the saga of Kyree Slocum.
You may have read about Slocum a few weeks ago. According to the Philadelphia Police version of the story, Slocum, 35, of North Philadelphia, was wanted by authorities in connection with the murders of Barry Johnson, 33, and Rubin Rasheen Eason, 28, inside a rowhouse on Marshall Street last October.
A month later, Slocum used a fake passport and ID at New York’s JFK airport to board a flight bound for Cairo.
Not speaking a word of Arabic, and not knowing the slightest thing about Egyptian customs and lifestyles – our boy from North Philly may have found it difficult to blend in as well as he thought he would. Egyptian authorities soon had Slocum under surveillance, and arrested him May 29. His false identity unraveled, the FBI was called, and arrangements were made for the FBI and Philly police to fly over and get him.
Here’s the part that made me go “Hmmmmmmm…”
When they finally picked up Kyree Slocum on June 19, he was practically begging to come back to an American prison. He profusely thanked his local escorts for freeing him from the Egyptian hellhole he’d been in for three weeks, and couldn’t wait to get on the plane.
Apparently, sleeping on a damp concrete floor with ten men to a cell, rancid, insect-filled food and a bucket in the corner for a bathroom were not accommodations to Mr. Slocum’s liking. You have to imagine there is a prison hierarchy over there just like here, and a prisoner who doesn’t speak a word of the language is probably not treated well.
It was a filthy, harsh, frightening environment – conditions so severe that even a hardened career criminal could be broken - brought to his knees crying and babbling with gratitude in a less than a month.
That got me to thinking.
All the neighborhood hard guys who take pride in their long prison stretches, whose chests swell when they speak of their exploits behind bars, who gleefully teach the next generation of young black men to speak, think, and act as if they’re already incarcerated – would change their minds about how cool prison is if they’d done time like Kyree Slocum.
For Slocum, after his Egyptian experience, American prison must seem like Club Med.
Those of us on the outside - particularly those of us who, from a safe distance, like to think of ourselves on the side of prison reform – like to talk about the effect of those two million American prisoners on society as a whole.
That effect is magnified tenfold in minority communities. According to the U.S. Department of Justice, based on current rates of incarceration, an estimated 32 percent of all Black males will enter prison during their lifetime, compared with 17 percent of Hispanic males and 5.9 percent of white males. In most states, convicted felons are not allowed to vote from prison; and in twelve states, felons are banned from voting for life.
Once released, many prisoners are still poorly educated, lack basic job skills and face employer suspicion, provided they can find a job at all. The result? More than two-thirds of released prisoners are re-arrested within three years, and the cycle begins anew.
So we do-gooders lobby for increased funding and for more programs encouraging education, proper physical and mental exercise, music and the arts behind bars as a means toward rehabilitation.
I still think those are causes worth fighting for, but I have to wonder if perhaps a case could be made for giving prisoners a taste, just a taste, of what life is like in a place untouched by us liberal do-gooders and prison reformers. I can’t help but wonder if this whole concept of prison reform would do better with a more little reform of the prisoners themselves.
I don’t know what the recidivism rate is in Egypt, but I’m willing to bet it isn’t even close to two-thirds.
There probably aren’t many tough guys holding court on street corners in Cairo, wearing their pants down below their butt, boasting to the local young bloods about how they aren’t afraid of prison because they run the cellblock.
Prison in Egypt is a scary place, and no one who’s been there is anxious to go back.
Just ask Kyree Slocum.
So it was for me with the saga of Kyree Slocum.
You may have read about Slocum a few weeks ago. According to the Philadelphia Police version of the story, Slocum, 35, of North Philadelphia, was wanted by authorities in connection with the murders of Barry Johnson, 33, and Rubin Rasheen Eason, 28, inside a rowhouse on Marshall Street last October.
A month later, Slocum used a fake passport and ID at New York’s JFK airport to board a flight bound for Cairo.
Not speaking a word of Arabic, and not knowing the slightest thing about Egyptian customs and lifestyles – our boy from North Philly may have found it difficult to blend in as well as he thought he would. Egyptian authorities soon had Slocum under surveillance, and arrested him May 29. His false identity unraveled, the FBI was called, and arrangements were made for the FBI and Philly police to fly over and get him.
Here’s the part that made me go “Hmmmmmmm…”
When they finally picked up Kyree Slocum on June 19, he was practically begging to come back to an American prison. He profusely thanked his local escorts for freeing him from the Egyptian hellhole he’d been in for three weeks, and couldn’t wait to get on the plane.
Apparently, sleeping on a damp concrete floor with ten men to a cell, rancid, insect-filled food and a bucket in the corner for a bathroom were not accommodations to Mr. Slocum’s liking. You have to imagine there is a prison hierarchy over there just like here, and a prisoner who doesn’t speak a word of the language is probably not treated well.
It was a filthy, harsh, frightening environment – conditions so severe that even a hardened career criminal could be broken - brought to his knees crying and babbling with gratitude in a less than a month.
That got me to thinking.
All the neighborhood hard guys who take pride in their long prison stretches, whose chests swell when they speak of their exploits behind bars, who gleefully teach the next generation of young black men to speak, think, and act as if they’re already incarcerated – would change their minds about how cool prison is if they’d done time like Kyree Slocum.
For Slocum, after his Egyptian experience, American prison must seem like Club Med.
Those of us on the outside - particularly those of us who, from a safe distance, like to think of ourselves on the side of prison reform – like to talk about the effect of those two million American prisoners on society as a whole.
That effect is magnified tenfold in minority communities. According to the U.S. Department of Justice, based on current rates of incarceration, an estimated 32 percent of all Black males will enter prison during their lifetime, compared with 17 percent of Hispanic males and 5.9 percent of white males. In most states, convicted felons are not allowed to vote from prison; and in twelve states, felons are banned from voting for life.
Once released, many prisoners are still poorly educated, lack basic job skills and face employer suspicion, provided they can find a job at all. The result? More than two-thirds of released prisoners are re-arrested within three years, and the cycle begins anew.
So we do-gooders lobby for increased funding and for more programs encouraging education, proper physical and mental exercise, music and the arts behind bars as a means toward rehabilitation.
I still think those are causes worth fighting for, but I have to wonder if perhaps a case could be made for giving prisoners a taste, just a taste, of what life is like in a place untouched by us liberal do-gooders and prison reformers. I can’t help but wonder if this whole concept of prison reform would do better with a more little reform of the prisoners themselves.
I don’t know what the recidivism rate is in Egypt, but I’m willing to bet it isn’t even close to two-thirds.
There probably aren’t many tough guys holding court on street corners in Cairo, wearing their pants down below their butt, boasting to the local young bloods about how they aren’t afraid of prison because they run the cellblock.
Prison in Egypt is a scary place, and no one who’s been there is anxious to go back.
Just ask Kyree Slocum.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Blowing Up On The Fourth
If you’ve lived in Philadelphia for a while, you’ve probably gone to the Welcome America! Festival.
It’s our annual Fourth of July celebration, complete with free concerts and a stunning fireworks display over the Art Museum, attracting tens of thousands of partygoers and tourists to Ben Franklin Parkway each year.
If you’ve lived in Philadelphia for a while, you’re probably also aware that the Art Museum isn’t the only place you’ll be exposed to fireworks this summer. Your own neighborhood, in the days leading up to Independence Day, will sound like a war zone every night.
While fireworks are still illegal in Pennsylvania, they’re easy to get and relatively cheap. And the customers aren’t just explosion-happy teenagers, but supposedly mature adults – most of whom ignore all safety and common sense when storing and using the mini-bombs.
The result? Starting in late June, you’ll be startled awake at least once by someone setting off ordinance in their small rowhouse back yard. You’ll wonder for a minute whether that was fireworks or gunfire, then go back to sleep. This will happen often, so get used to it.
There’s nothing quite like driving down the street late at night when the firecrackers and bottle rockets start going off nearby. It’s even more fun when you’re a pedestrian, because nothing on earth is funnier to these slack-jawed knuckleheads than watching a hapless civilian duck for cover.
I find it difficult to believe that Black parents, especially in an urban environment like Philadelphia, would not see the inherent stupidity in allowing their kids to be anywhere near fireworks.
Forget the statistics about the injuries, death, and fires that result from fireworks accidents every year.
On second thought, let’s not forget them. According to the National Fire Protection Association, about 9,800 fireworks-related injuries are treated in U.S. hospital emergency rooms on and around Independence Day.
Each year, there are an estimated 32,600 reported fires started by fireworks. These fires result in 6 civilian deaths, 70 civilian injuries and $34 million in direct property damage.
The most common injuries are severe burns, loss of fingers, loss of sight in one or both eyes, and various degrees of hearing loss. It may also interest you to note that the highest rates of injuries are to children ages 5 to 14.
But leaving all that aside, think of the social climate here in Philly for a moment and you’ll see my point.
What if, instead of just scaring the bejeebers out of the neighbors, the loud fireworks startle officers in a passing police cruiser? They hear Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!, and as they leap from the car, guns drawn and fearing for their lives, they see four Black teenagers huddled together, powder flashes and smoke still coming from that direction.
You know what happens next.
Four funerals, a couple of cops suspended with intent to dismiss, and the community is once again outraged over the trigger-happy police shooting first and asking questions later.
To save time, I’ll ask the question now.
If you believe the police to be trigger-happy cowboys just waiting for an excuse to gun down minorities in the street, why in the name of Albert Einstein would you provoke them into a gunfight? If you are only armed with firecrackers, and don’t actually have a gun, then scaring a trigger-happy cowboy into pulling his gun and firing seems… unwise.
If you’re convinced that fireworks are just harmless fun, despite the government statistics and my nightmare shooting scenario above, then I can’t help you. In fact, none of us can.
You are among the hard to reach parents, who continue to fire guns in the air to celebrate the New Year, despite the clear danger to your fellow citizens. You continue to buy realistic looking toy guns for your children, happy to ignore the news stories of dozens of dead children shot by police and others who thought the guns were real.
So fine, go right ahead and ignore the fact that your kids are outside playing with high explosives. Giggle along with them as they frighten the elderly, cause near collisions, and set the neighborhood dogs to howling. Giggle until one firecracker – just one – misfires.
The least you can do is buy them a couple of books to read over the summer. I suggest Treasure Island and Moby Dick. That way, they won’t feel too bad about wearing an eye patch and having a hook for a hand.
It’s our annual Fourth of July celebration, complete with free concerts and a stunning fireworks display over the Art Museum, attracting tens of thousands of partygoers and tourists to Ben Franklin Parkway each year.
If you’ve lived in Philadelphia for a while, you’re probably also aware that the Art Museum isn’t the only place you’ll be exposed to fireworks this summer. Your own neighborhood, in the days leading up to Independence Day, will sound like a war zone every night.
While fireworks are still illegal in Pennsylvania, they’re easy to get and relatively cheap. And the customers aren’t just explosion-happy teenagers, but supposedly mature adults – most of whom ignore all safety and common sense when storing and using the mini-bombs.
The result? Starting in late June, you’ll be startled awake at least once by someone setting off ordinance in their small rowhouse back yard. You’ll wonder for a minute whether that was fireworks or gunfire, then go back to sleep. This will happen often, so get used to it.
There’s nothing quite like driving down the street late at night when the firecrackers and bottle rockets start going off nearby. It’s even more fun when you’re a pedestrian, because nothing on earth is funnier to these slack-jawed knuckleheads than watching a hapless civilian duck for cover.
I find it difficult to believe that Black parents, especially in an urban environment like Philadelphia, would not see the inherent stupidity in allowing their kids to be anywhere near fireworks.
Forget the statistics about the injuries, death, and fires that result from fireworks accidents every year.
On second thought, let’s not forget them. According to the National Fire Protection Association, about 9,800 fireworks-related injuries are treated in U.S. hospital emergency rooms on and around Independence Day.
Each year, there are an estimated 32,600 reported fires started by fireworks. These fires result in 6 civilian deaths, 70 civilian injuries and $34 million in direct property damage.
The most common injuries are severe burns, loss of fingers, loss of sight in one or both eyes, and various degrees of hearing loss. It may also interest you to note that the highest rates of injuries are to children ages 5 to 14.
But leaving all that aside, think of the social climate here in Philly for a moment and you’ll see my point.
What if, instead of just scaring the bejeebers out of the neighbors, the loud fireworks startle officers in a passing police cruiser? They hear Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!, and as they leap from the car, guns drawn and fearing for their lives, they see four Black teenagers huddled together, powder flashes and smoke still coming from that direction.
You know what happens next.
Four funerals, a couple of cops suspended with intent to dismiss, and the community is once again outraged over the trigger-happy police shooting first and asking questions later.
To save time, I’ll ask the question now.
If you believe the police to be trigger-happy cowboys just waiting for an excuse to gun down minorities in the street, why in the name of Albert Einstein would you provoke them into a gunfight? If you are only armed with firecrackers, and don’t actually have a gun, then scaring a trigger-happy cowboy into pulling his gun and firing seems… unwise.
If you’re convinced that fireworks are just harmless fun, despite the government statistics and my nightmare shooting scenario above, then I can’t help you. In fact, none of us can.
You are among the hard to reach parents, who continue to fire guns in the air to celebrate the New Year, despite the clear danger to your fellow citizens. You continue to buy realistic looking toy guns for your children, happy to ignore the news stories of dozens of dead children shot by police and others who thought the guns were real.
So fine, go right ahead and ignore the fact that your kids are outside playing with high explosives. Giggle along with them as they frighten the elderly, cause near collisions, and set the neighborhood dogs to howling. Giggle until one firecracker – just one – misfires.
The least you can do is buy them a couple of books to read over the summer. I suggest Treasure Island and Moby Dick. That way, they won’t feel too bad about wearing an eye patch and having a hook for a hand.
Monday, June 22, 2009
I Pity The FOOL
It occurs to me that here in Philadelphia, our approach to gun control may be all wrong.
We are motivated by outrage – the righteous indignation of a people justifiably weary of watching bodies pile up in the morgue and seeing too many families torn by grief.
If guns are the weapon of choice, we reason, simply ban the guns. Take away the split-second finality of a bad decision and you take a bite out of the murder rate. It seems like a common sense, cause-and-effect rationale if you live in a modern-day war zone.
The majority of Pennsylvanians outside our fair city, however, are not keen on any legislation which would supersede their sacred right to keep and bear arms. With a state law restricting local municipalities from enacting their own firearms ordinances, legislators are at an impasse. Every year Philadelphia lawmakers try their best to get gun bills through, and every year those bills die in committee.
May I suggest a compromise?
Instead of sweeping gun reform laws which apply to everyone, we make a simple change in the requirements for firearm ownership, to wit:
Stupid people cannot own guns.
Here’s how we pull it off: Politicians routinely call for blue ribbon panels to study whatever happens to be the social problem of the moment. Those panels conduct research, hold meetings, and then issue a 300-page opinion paper on their findings – by which time no one remembers why they were impaneled in the first place.
Now, our politicians can argue, we have a chance to establish a blue ribbon panel for the public good. Get a bunch of sociologists, psychologists, and social workers together and establish some sort of means testing as to what level of intelligence, common sense and temperament is necessary for responsible gun ownership.
Call it the Firearms Ownership Objection Level, or FOOL test. If you don’t pass the FOOL test of responsible gun ownership, then you don’t get to own a gun.
I offer as evidence two cases making headlines this week, and you can decide for yourself.
Presently on trial in Common Pleas Court is Vonzell “Pooh” Roundtree, of Southwest Philly. On the night of July 22, 2007, Roundtree, his uncle Jamar Thompson, and Thompson’s friend Stacy Gallmon were watching the Bernard Hopkins – Winky Wright fight at Abay’s Wheeler bar when an argument escalated between Thompson and two other patrons. A fight ensued, and Roundtree pulled out a 9mm pistol, ostensibly to protect his family member.
Roundtree emptied the gun, and when the smoke cleared, both offending patrons were dead. So was his uncle Jamar. Stacy Gallmon died of multiple gunshot wounds two days later. Either Roundtree is the world’s worst shot, unfamiliar with the concept of ‘aim’ – or he’s just plain stupid.
Last Friday night Joseph Jimenez and Scott Riley were at a small gathering of friends in the Bridgeport section, playing beer pong.
For those who haven’t been to college or the military, beer pong is a drinking game in which players toss a ping-pong ball into cups filled with beer. If the ball lands in one of your cups, you drink the beer. By the end of the game, both teams usually end up drunk, and a good time is had by all. Unless of course, one of the players is a heavily armed poor loser like Jimenez.
Talking trash after the game, Riley, according to witnesses, dismissed Jimenez’ drunken threats with, “Shoot me! Shoot me! You ain't got the balls!”
More accurately, he should have said, “You ain’t got the brains!”, because Jimenez then pulled a .40 caliber cannon out of his waistband and shot Riley in the neck, killing him.
The gun was legally registered to Jimenez, who clearly would have failed the FOOL test. Police found Roundtree’s gun, along with two other handguns, in his bag – a bag clearly marked with his name on it. Does this sound like someone who could pass a FOOL test?
These mental giants, remember, are only the tip of the iceberg. Right now, all over Philadelphia, there are dozens - maybe hundreds - of slack-jawed dullards in possession of deadly weapons with itchy trigger fingers and the intelligence of a bullfrog. The FOOL tests could help weed out the worst of the worst.
And don’t give me any lip about discrimination. Does Pennsylvania’s driver’s license test discriminate against blind people? Common sense dictates that we don’t let the visually impaired drive automobiles because they’d pose an immediate public danger.
That alone, it seems to me, is plenty enough reason not to let FOOLS have guns.
We are motivated by outrage – the righteous indignation of a people justifiably weary of watching bodies pile up in the morgue and seeing too many families torn by grief.
If guns are the weapon of choice, we reason, simply ban the guns. Take away the split-second finality of a bad decision and you take a bite out of the murder rate. It seems like a common sense, cause-and-effect rationale if you live in a modern-day war zone.
The majority of Pennsylvanians outside our fair city, however, are not keen on any legislation which would supersede their sacred right to keep and bear arms. With a state law restricting local municipalities from enacting their own firearms ordinances, legislators are at an impasse. Every year Philadelphia lawmakers try their best to get gun bills through, and every year those bills die in committee.
May I suggest a compromise?
Instead of sweeping gun reform laws which apply to everyone, we make a simple change in the requirements for firearm ownership, to wit:
Stupid people cannot own guns.
Here’s how we pull it off: Politicians routinely call for blue ribbon panels to study whatever happens to be the social problem of the moment. Those panels conduct research, hold meetings, and then issue a 300-page opinion paper on their findings – by which time no one remembers why they were impaneled in the first place.
Now, our politicians can argue, we have a chance to establish a blue ribbon panel for the public good. Get a bunch of sociologists, psychologists, and social workers together and establish some sort of means testing as to what level of intelligence, common sense and temperament is necessary for responsible gun ownership.
Call it the Firearms Ownership Objection Level, or FOOL test. If you don’t pass the FOOL test of responsible gun ownership, then you don’t get to own a gun.
I offer as evidence two cases making headlines this week, and you can decide for yourself.
Presently on trial in Common Pleas Court is Vonzell “Pooh” Roundtree, of Southwest Philly. On the night of July 22, 2007, Roundtree, his uncle Jamar Thompson, and Thompson’s friend Stacy Gallmon were watching the Bernard Hopkins – Winky Wright fight at Abay’s Wheeler bar when an argument escalated between Thompson and two other patrons. A fight ensued, and Roundtree pulled out a 9mm pistol, ostensibly to protect his family member.
Roundtree emptied the gun, and when the smoke cleared, both offending patrons were dead. So was his uncle Jamar. Stacy Gallmon died of multiple gunshot wounds two days later. Either Roundtree is the world’s worst shot, unfamiliar with the concept of ‘aim’ – or he’s just plain stupid.
Last Friday night Joseph Jimenez and Scott Riley were at a small gathering of friends in the Bridgeport section, playing beer pong.
For those who haven’t been to college or the military, beer pong is a drinking game in which players toss a ping-pong ball into cups filled with beer. If the ball lands in one of your cups, you drink the beer. By the end of the game, both teams usually end up drunk, and a good time is had by all. Unless of course, one of the players is a heavily armed poor loser like Jimenez.
Talking trash after the game, Riley, according to witnesses, dismissed Jimenez’ drunken threats with, “Shoot me! Shoot me! You ain't got the balls!”
More accurately, he should have said, “You ain’t got the brains!”, because Jimenez then pulled a .40 caliber cannon out of his waistband and shot Riley in the neck, killing him.
The gun was legally registered to Jimenez, who clearly would have failed the FOOL test. Police found Roundtree’s gun, along with two other handguns, in his bag – a bag clearly marked with his name on it. Does this sound like someone who could pass a FOOL test?
These mental giants, remember, are only the tip of the iceberg. Right now, all over Philadelphia, there are dozens - maybe hundreds - of slack-jawed dullards in possession of deadly weapons with itchy trigger fingers and the intelligence of a bullfrog. The FOOL tests could help weed out the worst of the worst.
And don’t give me any lip about discrimination. Does Pennsylvania’s driver’s license test discriminate against blind people? Common sense dictates that we don’t let the visually impaired drive automobiles because they’d pose an immediate public danger.
That alone, it seems to me, is plenty enough reason not to let FOOLS have guns.
The Valyoo of Edukashun
Sometimes, you just don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
When teachers at South Philadelphia High School complained to reporters last week that they were under pressure to promote, and even graduate, hundreds of badly failing students; outgoing principal Alice Heller defended the practice to the Philadelphia Inquirer with the it-would-be-funny-if-it-weren’t-so-frightening quote, “It's a good thing for self-esteem.”
It should be noted here that we’re not talking about high schoolers who might be just a little behind the curve and may need some tutoring. Many of these poor kids are functionally illiterate, unable to read simple directions or fill out a job application. They lack even basic math skills, unable to calculate their own change at the store.
Naturally, the local blogs and message boards lit up immediately with every vicious invective imaginable hurled at Heller. That’s because shortsighted finger pointing is a lot easier than critical examination. For instance, does anyone think for one minute that Ms. Heller thought that up by herself? The practice, known nationwide as social promotion, has been on urban public school radar screens for a couple of decades now.
Numerous studies conducted in the 1970’s and 80’s concluded that the practice of retention, or having students repeat the same grade, did not significantly improve their academic skills, but instead made them the object of ridicule among their peers. Now feeling alienated from school, these students tended to develop emotional and behavioral problems, making them a greater risk of dropping out altogether.
Several rigorous studies, for example, have found that repeating just one grade more than doubles the odds of dropping out of school. Students who repeat two grades have an 80 to 90 percent chance of dropping out.
As the dropout rate slowly increased to its current horrific numbers in urban school districts, social promotion became public education’s dirty little secret.
Districts, desperate to get a handle on rising dropout rates, quietly pushed the philosophy on principals, who were already under tremendous pressure to improve their numbers or face losing their positions. Those principals had no choice but to pass that pressure downward onto the teachers.
They made it difficult, if not impossible, to fail a student for the year. Teachers who did found themselves buried in a mountain of paperwork, or sitting through endless meetings and evaluations with administration with the express purpose of changing that F to a D, and shuffling the student along through the system. With the hundreds of other things teachers have to worry about, it just wasn’t worth it. It’s a lot easier to move the student along, perhaps freeing time for other, more worthy pupils.
Liberal education advocates, while well intentioned, didn’t view the idea from the perspective of the mostly minority students they claim to champion. It is poisonous and criminal to teach Black kids that society will keep lowering the bar for them because everybody knows they’re just too poor and slow to keep up.
Those kids would, and have, lived up (or down, in this case) to those lowered expectations.
Also complicit in the open conspiracy were local politicians. Once they got wind of the fact that each student left down a grade costs taxpayers anywhere from $5000 to $8000, they found few objections to social promotion.
Parents, of course, were just happy to see little Johnny graduate - never mind that he can’t read his own diploma.
There has always been a peer-driven stigma to being left back a grade, and I have no doubt that the studies are right – that social promotion keeps students from feeling bad about failing.
But so what?
Better hurt feelings now than to thrust them into the cold, cruel world completely unprepared for adulthood. Adults have to fill out forms, read reports, and keep timesheets and paperwork. Adults have to follow directions, read signs, and write checks. Adults have to shop for bargains, read warning labels, and pay bills.
And as any adult can tell you, the adult world is remarkably intolerant. No one cares if you need extra help, no one is willing to cut you any slack, and no one wants to hear your sad story. The adult world – which, by the way, could not care less about your self-esteem - is more than happy to simply label you a failure and move on.
Passing, and eventually graduating, students who lack the educational basics is a cruel recipe for a lifetime of failure - especially for students of color - and yet we do it every June.
Self-esteem doesn’t do you much good if it’s only temporary, and you can’t even spell it.
When teachers at South Philadelphia High School complained to reporters last week that they were under pressure to promote, and even graduate, hundreds of badly failing students; outgoing principal Alice Heller defended the practice to the Philadelphia Inquirer with the it-would-be-funny-if-it-weren’t-so-frightening quote, “It's a good thing for self-esteem.”
It should be noted here that we’re not talking about high schoolers who might be just a little behind the curve and may need some tutoring. Many of these poor kids are functionally illiterate, unable to read simple directions or fill out a job application. They lack even basic math skills, unable to calculate their own change at the store.
Naturally, the local blogs and message boards lit up immediately with every vicious invective imaginable hurled at Heller. That’s because shortsighted finger pointing is a lot easier than critical examination. For instance, does anyone think for one minute that Ms. Heller thought that up by herself? The practice, known nationwide as social promotion, has been on urban public school radar screens for a couple of decades now.
Numerous studies conducted in the 1970’s and 80’s concluded that the practice of retention, or having students repeat the same grade, did not significantly improve their academic skills, but instead made them the object of ridicule among their peers. Now feeling alienated from school, these students tended to develop emotional and behavioral problems, making them a greater risk of dropping out altogether.
Several rigorous studies, for example, have found that repeating just one grade more than doubles the odds of dropping out of school. Students who repeat two grades have an 80 to 90 percent chance of dropping out.
As the dropout rate slowly increased to its current horrific numbers in urban school districts, social promotion became public education’s dirty little secret.
Districts, desperate to get a handle on rising dropout rates, quietly pushed the philosophy on principals, who were already under tremendous pressure to improve their numbers or face losing their positions. Those principals had no choice but to pass that pressure downward onto the teachers.
They made it difficult, if not impossible, to fail a student for the year. Teachers who did found themselves buried in a mountain of paperwork, or sitting through endless meetings and evaluations with administration with the express purpose of changing that F to a D, and shuffling the student along through the system. With the hundreds of other things teachers have to worry about, it just wasn’t worth it. It’s a lot easier to move the student along, perhaps freeing time for other, more worthy pupils.
Liberal education advocates, while well intentioned, didn’t view the idea from the perspective of the mostly minority students they claim to champion. It is poisonous and criminal to teach Black kids that society will keep lowering the bar for them because everybody knows they’re just too poor and slow to keep up.
Those kids would, and have, lived up (or down, in this case) to those lowered expectations.
Also complicit in the open conspiracy were local politicians. Once they got wind of the fact that each student left down a grade costs taxpayers anywhere from $5000 to $8000, they found few objections to social promotion.
Parents, of course, were just happy to see little Johnny graduate - never mind that he can’t read his own diploma.
There has always been a peer-driven stigma to being left back a grade, and I have no doubt that the studies are right – that social promotion keeps students from feeling bad about failing.
But so what?
Better hurt feelings now than to thrust them into the cold, cruel world completely unprepared for adulthood. Adults have to fill out forms, read reports, and keep timesheets and paperwork. Adults have to follow directions, read signs, and write checks. Adults have to shop for bargains, read warning labels, and pay bills.
And as any adult can tell you, the adult world is remarkably intolerant. No one cares if you need extra help, no one is willing to cut you any slack, and no one wants to hear your sad story. The adult world – which, by the way, could not care less about your self-esteem - is more than happy to simply label you a failure and move on.
Passing, and eventually graduating, students who lack the educational basics is a cruel recipe for a lifetime of failure - especially for students of color - and yet we do it every June.
Self-esteem doesn’t do you much good if it’s only temporary, and you can’t even spell it.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
The High Cost of Common Courtesy
You don’t need me to tell you that times are tough.
Predicting financial calamity, bankers have finally gotten through to the politicians they so carefully bought and sold over the years, demanding vast sums of public money to fix their ragged bottom lines. But because money doesn’t materialize out of thin air, politicians are then left to explain to us how they’re going to take it from the programs that actually help people. If their explanations are falling a bit flat for you, let me break it down:
You went out to lunch with three fat cats. They ordered six lobsters, eight filet mignon, shrimp cocktails all around, and washed it down with five bottles of Dom Perignon. You ordered the small salad and a glass of water. Now, when the check arrives, they excuse themselves from the table, leaving the waiter to explain to you why you owe $3000. You can cry all you want about only having a salad, but the fat cats are gone and you alone bear the responsibility to the restaurant.
Sound bad? Multiply that by thousands of unpaid restaurants, who then have to lay off hundreds of thousands of workers and cut corners with the food. And our fat friends who got us into this mess? They’re burping and rubbing their bellies, knowing that no matter what they do, we’re still going to take them out to dinner later.
Belt tightening measures have begun in communities nationwide, and regular folks are screaming bloody murder. Politicians from City Hall to Capitol Hill are at each other’s throats, each accusing the other side of squandering our dwindling tax dollars.
Witness the city’s short-lived idea of charging residents for weekly trash pickup. So great was the hue and cry from the local gentry, Mayor Nutter shelved the idea before it could gain traction.
Yet with the commonwealth of Pennsylvania facing a potential budget shortfall of more than 2 billion dollars, we’re spending $173,000 on courtesy training for liquor store clerks.
That’s right. Pennsylvania’s 4,000 liquor store clerks will, thanks to your hard earned cash, learn to say “hello” when you enter the store, and “thank you, come again” when you leave.
If you’re a regular Tribune reader, and I hope you are, you know that I am the first one to hop on a soapbox to decry the lack of common courtesy, and our society’s casual acceptance of rude behavior. I have personally been a customer in liquor stores once or twice, and there’s no doubt that some training in that regard would be a good idea.
But $173,000?
Turns out that the company the state hired to do the trainings, Pittsburgh-based consulting firm Solutions 21, is owned by John “Buddy” Hobart. In what I am sure is a mere coincidence, Hobart’s wife Susanne just happens to be the Pennsylvania Liquor Control Board's Western Regional Manager of Retail Operations.
Try to act surprised.
I have a solution to the problem – and I’m willing to give it to the governor for free.
Write a memo to the clerks, managers, and other employees saying simply, “Treat every customer with courtesy and respect or you’re fired.” That means no yakking on cell phones, no standing there disinterested while the customer has to look over your shoulder at the cash register to see their total, no agonized sighing when asked a question.
Hey, if you really want to get customer friendly, you might even hire a few people who know something about wines and spirits. Perhaps someone who could assist in choosing a wine for a special meal, or who knows a single malt scotch from rot gut.
To be honest, I’m not sure that any amount of training as an adult can replace the home training they should have received as children. No one will ever admit to being rude or discourteous, and folks will see no real need to change their behavior just because they had a training session. It’s all carrot and no stick.
But you attach that helpfulness and courtesy directly to their ability to keep their jobs, earn promotion, and be eligible for bonuses, and watch the overnight attitude adjustment. Their faces will hurt from smiling, and your local liquor store will replace Disneyland as the happiest place on earth.
See? I just saved the state $173,000. Don’t ever say I’m not doing my part to help our struggling economy.
Predicting financial calamity, bankers have finally gotten through to the politicians they so carefully bought and sold over the years, demanding vast sums of public money to fix their ragged bottom lines. But because money doesn’t materialize out of thin air, politicians are then left to explain to us how they’re going to take it from the programs that actually help people. If their explanations are falling a bit flat for you, let me break it down:
You went out to lunch with three fat cats. They ordered six lobsters, eight filet mignon, shrimp cocktails all around, and washed it down with five bottles of Dom Perignon. You ordered the small salad and a glass of water. Now, when the check arrives, they excuse themselves from the table, leaving the waiter to explain to you why you owe $3000. You can cry all you want about only having a salad, but the fat cats are gone and you alone bear the responsibility to the restaurant.
Sound bad? Multiply that by thousands of unpaid restaurants, who then have to lay off hundreds of thousands of workers and cut corners with the food. And our fat friends who got us into this mess? They’re burping and rubbing their bellies, knowing that no matter what they do, we’re still going to take them out to dinner later.
Belt tightening measures have begun in communities nationwide, and regular folks are screaming bloody murder. Politicians from City Hall to Capitol Hill are at each other’s throats, each accusing the other side of squandering our dwindling tax dollars.
Witness the city’s short-lived idea of charging residents for weekly trash pickup. So great was the hue and cry from the local gentry, Mayor Nutter shelved the idea before it could gain traction.
Yet with the commonwealth of Pennsylvania facing a potential budget shortfall of more than 2 billion dollars, we’re spending $173,000 on courtesy training for liquor store clerks.
That’s right. Pennsylvania’s 4,000 liquor store clerks will, thanks to your hard earned cash, learn to say “hello” when you enter the store, and “thank you, come again” when you leave.
If you’re a regular Tribune reader, and I hope you are, you know that I am the first one to hop on a soapbox to decry the lack of common courtesy, and our society’s casual acceptance of rude behavior. I have personally been a customer in liquor stores once or twice, and there’s no doubt that some training in that regard would be a good idea.
But $173,000?
Turns out that the company the state hired to do the trainings, Pittsburgh-based consulting firm Solutions 21, is owned by John “Buddy” Hobart. In what I am sure is a mere coincidence, Hobart’s wife Susanne just happens to be the Pennsylvania Liquor Control Board's Western Regional Manager of Retail Operations.
Try to act surprised.
I have a solution to the problem – and I’m willing to give it to the governor for free.
Write a memo to the clerks, managers, and other employees saying simply, “Treat every customer with courtesy and respect or you’re fired.” That means no yakking on cell phones, no standing there disinterested while the customer has to look over your shoulder at the cash register to see their total, no agonized sighing when asked a question.
Hey, if you really want to get customer friendly, you might even hire a few people who know something about wines and spirits. Perhaps someone who could assist in choosing a wine for a special meal, or who knows a single malt scotch from rot gut.
To be honest, I’m not sure that any amount of training as an adult can replace the home training they should have received as children. No one will ever admit to being rude or discourteous, and folks will see no real need to change their behavior just because they had a training session. It’s all carrot and no stick.
But you attach that helpfulness and courtesy directly to their ability to keep their jobs, earn promotion, and be eligible for bonuses, and watch the overnight attitude adjustment. Their faces will hurt from smiling, and your local liquor store will replace Disneyland as the happiest place on earth.
See? I just saved the state $173,000. Don’t ever say I’m not doing my part to help our struggling economy.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Man's Other Best Friend
A little more than seven years ago, my life was in upheaval, to say the least.
Anyone who has experienced the breakup of their marriage can tell you horror stories of those first few months of sudden singlehood. It is a time of fear, loneliness and seemingly endless self-doubt.
Early during those dark days, I was working on a story that took me along Erie Avenue, past St. Christopher’s Hospital for Children and the Pennsylvania SPCA. On a whim, I pulled into the animal shelter’s parking lot, figuring I’d have a look around, and maybe pick up another story for the next issue.
Meandering past the cages, a kitten caught my eye. She was a tiny, multicolored fuzzball – smaller and skinnier than the other kittens in the cage with her – the runt of the litter.
I filled out the paperwork, which is nowhere near as easy as it sounds. The questionnaire to adopt a pet is more extensive, intrusive, and deeply personal than the forms I filled out to join the military. But a half hour later I was driving home with a kitten tucked in my shirt pocket, her little head sticking out and screaming bloody murder.
Since that day, Sophie and I have been though a lot together. She single handedly got me through the worst period in my life just by doing those things kittens do that never fail to make you smile.
Like the day I found out she wasn’t afraid of water.
I was taking a shower, merrily scrubbing away, when I turned around and there behind me in the tub, soaking wet and pitiful looking, sat Sophie. The constant pelting of the water didn’t seem to bother her, and she just sat there staring at me while I finished my shower. Stranger yet, she continued to shower with me at least once a week after that.
I know that dogs are supposed to be man’s best friend, and I do love dogs, but I suddenly found myself best friends with a cat.
My best friend died last Saturday afternoon.
Sophie wasn’t looking well that morning, but I wasn’t particularly worried until she started moaning. Not a meow, a moan. In a panic I took her to the University of Pennsylvania’s Veterinary Emergency Room, where a vet looked her over, took some blood, and asked me to wait outside. He came out a few minutes later with the bad news. She was in the advanced stages of feline cancer, and couldn’t be saved.
So, I had to let her go. The euthanasia procedure was quick and painless, and I spoke softly to her, stroking her head as she slipped away.
This week I called the hospital, officially the Matthew J. Ryan Veterinary Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania, to find out if there was anything more I could have done, or should have done differently. I spoke to Dr. Reid Groman, who shared some practical advice for pet owners in time of crisis.
“It’s often a last second decision to come to the emergency room,” Groman said, “when people’s pets get sick after hours or on weekends, they’ll often try to wait until Monday to see their regular vet.”
I asked Groman about the warning signs – those symptoms that say go to the emergency room rather than wait until Monday.
“Vomiting, sudden loss of appetite, seizures or trembling, difficulty breathing or moving around - anything that looks bad probably is bad,” he said. “As you found out, sadly, sometimes there are no symptoms until the pet is in real trouble, but people should never ignore those things. If you’re on the fence as to whether to bring her in or wait until Monday, bring her in.”
Groman acknowledges that emergency room care, even euthanasia, can get expensive quickly. There are companies out there that provide health insurance for animals, believe it or not, and the five or ten bucks a month may seem excessive, but will pay for itself with the first emergency room visit.
Pets do much more for their owners than their owners do for them. It’s a rare and fortunate thing in this life for any of us to receive the kind of unconditional love, fierce loyalty, and undying affection you get from your pets. They don’t care if you’re rich, thin, or well dressed, and don’t ask for much besides canned food and an occasional scratch behind the ear.
If you happen to be near the Pennsylvania SPCA, stop in, find a friend, and fill out the paperwork. If your new friend happens to be a screaming little multicolored fuzzball, I hope you’ll consider naming her Sophie.
Anyone who has experienced the breakup of their marriage can tell you horror stories of those first few months of sudden singlehood. It is a time of fear, loneliness and seemingly endless self-doubt.
Early during those dark days, I was working on a story that took me along Erie Avenue, past St. Christopher’s Hospital for Children and the Pennsylvania SPCA. On a whim, I pulled into the animal shelter’s parking lot, figuring I’d have a look around, and maybe pick up another story for the next issue.
Meandering past the cages, a kitten caught my eye. She was a tiny, multicolored fuzzball – smaller and skinnier than the other kittens in the cage with her – the runt of the litter.
I filled out the paperwork, which is nowhere near as easy as it sounds. The questionnaire to adopt a pet is more extensive, intrusive, and deeply personal than the forms I filled out to join the military. But a half hour later I was driving home with a kitten tucked in my shirt pocket, her little head sticking out and screaming bloody murder.
Since that day, Sophie and I have been though a lot together. She single handedly got me through the worst period in my life just by doing those things kittens do that never fail to make you smile.
Like the day I found out she wasn’t afraid of water.
I was taking a shower, merrily scrubbing away, when I turned around and there behind me in the tub, soaking wet and pitiful looking, sat Sophie. The constant pelting of the water didn’t seem to bother her, and she just sat there staring at me while I finished my shower. Stranger yet, she continued to shower with me at least once a week after that.
I know that dogs are supposed to be man’s best friend, and I do love dogs, but I suddenly found myself best friends with a cat.
My best friend died last Saturday afternoon.
Sophie wasn’t looking well that morning, but I wasn’t particularly worried until she started moaning. Not a meow, a moan. In a panic I took her to the University of Pennsylvania’s Veterinary Emergency Room, where a vet looked her over, took some blood, and asked me to wait outside. He came out a few minutes later with the bad news. She was in the advanced stages of feline cancer, and couldn’t be saved.
So, I had to let her go. The euthanasia procedure was quick and painless, and I spoke softly to her, stroking her head as she slipped away.
This week I called the hospital, officially the Matthew J. Ryan Veterinary Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania, to find out if there was anything more I could have done, or should have done differently. I spoke to Dr. Reid Groman, who shared some practical advice for pet owners in time of crisis.
“It’s often a last second decision to come to the emergency room,” Groman said, “when people’s pets get sick after hours or on weekends, they’ll often try to wait until Monday to see their regular vet.”
I asked Groman about the warning signs – those symptoms that say go to the emergency room rather than wait until Monday.
“Vomiting, sudden loss of appetite, seizures or trembling, difficulty breathing or moving around - anything that looks bad probably is bad,” he said. “As you found out, sadly, sometimes there are no symptoms until the pet is in real trouble, but people should never ignore those things. If you’re on the fence as to whether to bring her in or wait until Monday, bring her in.”
Groman acknowledges that emergency room care, even euthanasia, can get expensive quickly. There are companies out there that provide health insurance for animals, believe it or not, and the five or ten bucks a month may seem excessive, but will pay for itself with the first emergency room visit.
Pets do much more for their owners than their owners do for them. It’s a rare and fortunate thing in this life for any of us to receive the kind of unconditional love, fierce loyalty, and undying affection you get from your pets. They don’t care if you’re rich, thin, or well dressed, and don’t ask for much besides canned food and an occasional scratch behind the ear.
If you happen to be near the Pennsylvania SPCA, stop in, find a friend, and fill out the paperwork. If your new friend happens to be a screaming little multicolored fuzzball, I hope you’ll consider naming her Sophie.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Comic Is As Comic Does
The honest truth is, I never liked the Mummers Parade.
The most vivid memory of the parade from my youth is how angry it made my grandfather. You see, back in the 1960’s, the Comic Divisions were still wearing blackface and strutting an exaggerated jigaboo shuffle up Broad Street, to the delight of thousands of cheering white Philadelphians. It was a scene straight out of Amos and Andy, with every ugly stereotype imaginable masquerading as lampoon.
Blacks who complained were waved off as overly sensitive whiners – always crying about some perceived mistreatment at the hands of the white man and incapable of good humor. They finally amended the policy late in the decade, but the entire Mummers Parade still stuck in Grandpop’s craw, and by extension, mine too.
I mention this politically incorrect slice of Philadelphia life only because in last week’s parade, the Mummers were at it again.
Comic brigade B. Love Strutters titled their performance “Aliens of an Illegal Kind”, and featured Geno’s Steaks proprietor Joey Vento.
Vento, you’ll recall, created quite a stir when he tacked up a sign in the South Philly cheesesteak emporium’s window stating, “This is America. When ordering, speak English.” Immigrants, foreign nationals, tourists and even some native Philadelphians were incensed, and the city’s Human Relations Commission mounted a weak, half-hearted inquiry that led nowhere. Vento, meanwhile, was hailed as a conquering hero by every flag-waving, immigrant-hating, my-country-right-or-wrong redneck for a thousand miles.
So, as the B. Love Strutters float labeled “Gewizno’s Steaks” cruised slowly up Broad, Vento popped out waving a poster reading, “What?” and tossed cheesesteaks to the adoring crowd.
Then, and this is my favorite part - an announcer yells, "Uh-oh, here comes the Border Patrol!" B. Love Strutters representing Border Patrol agents with cowboy hats and wooden rifles pretended to hold back a crowd of "immigrants" from storming the set up fences. As the immigrants broke free, they traded their country's flag for an American flag, and a Mummer dressed as President-elect Barack Obama handed out Green Cards.
Funny stuff, huh? As my daughter used to say, “So funny I forgot to laugh.”
Naturally, the blogosphere was instantly aflame with charges of racism and xenophobia, followed by counter-charges of “Well, they benefit from living in America, they should speak English!” and “It was the Comics! Can’t these people take a joke?” reminiscent of the brush off retort from the 60’s when it was used against those ever-complaining Black people.
In all candor, though, throughout this entire immigration brouhaha, the African-American community has been seemingly silent – but there are several factors that play into that.
As white folks love to point out, everyone in this country, save the nearly extinct Native Americans, are the descendants of immigrants. This is undeniably true. However, only the African came here not of his own free will, seeking a better life, but as chattel - destined to a miserable existence of servitude, torment, and hard labor. We are the original huddled masses yearning to breathe free, yet our greeting to these shores was not Lady Liberty and Ellis Island, but heavy chains and a heavier whip.
So forgive us if we aren’t hopping up and down about some dirt poor Mexicans swimming across the Rio Grande for the grand privilege of spending the next several years picking fruit for pennies a day. Our grandparents did more than their measure of sharecropping, and it’s not what you’d call the lush life.
The same howling, saber-rattling Americans who would build giant fences and close the border to anyone who isn’t from Europe would never think of getting rid of their beloved Consuela, who takes care of their bratty kids; or Raul, who faithfully trims their hedges every week.
They don’t look in the back of the house at their favorite high-end restaurant, where nearly the entire kitchen staff is comprised of hard working immigrants, many of whom speak very little English.
They don’t take notice when they drive past the farms and orchards of New Jersey and rural Pennsylvania - where the backbreaking planting, picking and packaging is performed by immigrants who rise well before dawn and work until they run out of daylight.
So no, don’t expect Black folks to come running when a controversy boils down to “us” versus “them.” If there’s one thing we’ve learned in 400 years, it’s that we are not included in “us.”
I wonder if next year the Mummers would sponsor a performance titled, “The Big Payback”, where Black strutters march up Broad Street whipping white folks at random and selling their children into slavery.
Not so funny now, is it?
The most vivid memory of the parade from my youth is how angry it made my grandfather. You see, back in the 1960’s, the Comic Divisions were still wearing blackface and strutting an exaggerated jigaboo shuffle up Broad Street, to the delight of thousands of cheering white Philadelphians. It was a scene straight out of Amos and Andy, with every ugly stereotype imaginable masquerading as lampoon.
Blacks who complained were waved off as overly sensitive whiners – always crying about some perceived mistreatment at the hands of the white man and incapable of good humor. They finally amended the policy late in the decade, but the entire Mummers Parade still stuck in Grandpop’s craw, and by extension, mine too.
I mention this politically incorrect slice of Philadelphia life only because in last week’s parade, the Mummers were at it again.
Comic brigade B. Love Strutters titled their performance “Aliens of an Illegal Kind”, and featured Geno’s Steaks proprietor Joey Vento.
Vento, you’ll recall, created quite a stir when he tacked up a sign in the South Philly cheesesteak emporium’s window stating, “This is America. When ordering, speak English.” Immigrants, foreign nationals, tourists and even some native Philadelphians were incensed, and the city’s Human Relations Commission mounted a weak, half-hearted inquiry that led nowhere. Vento, meanwhile, was hailed as a conquering hero by every flag-waving, immigrant-hating, my-country-right-or-wrong redneck for a thousand miles.
So, as the B. Love Strutters float labeled “Gewizno’s Steaks” cruised slowly up Broad, Vento popped out waving a poster reading, “What?” and tossed cheesesteaks to the adoring crowd.
Then, and this is my favorite part - an announcer yells, "Uh-oh, here comes the Border Patrol!" B. Love Strutters representing Border Patrol agents with cowboy hats and wooden rifles pretended to hold back a crowd of "immigrants" from storming the set up fences. As the immigrants broke free, they traded their country's flag for an American flag, and a Mummer dressed as President-elect Barack Obama handed out Green Cards.
Funny stuff, huh? As my daughter used to say, “So funny I forgot to laugh.”
Naturally, the blogosphere was instantly aflame with charges of racism and xenophobia, followed by counter-charges of “Well, they benefit from living in America, they should speak English!” and “It was the Comics! Can’t these people take a joke?” reminiscent of the brush off retort from the 60’s when it was used against those ever-complaining Black people.
In all candor, though, throughout this entire immigration brouhaha, the African-American community has been seemingly silent – but there are several factors that play into that.
As white folks love to point out, everyone in this country, save the nearly extinct Native Americans, are the descendants of immigrants. This is undeniably true. However, only the African came here not of his own free will, seeking a better life, but as chattel - destined to a miserable existence of servitude, torment, and hard labor. We are the original huddled masses yearning to breathe free, yet our greeting to these shores was not Lady Liberty and Ellis Island, but heavy chains and a heavier whip.
So forgive us if we aren’t hopping up and down about some dirt poor Mexicans swimming across the Rio Grande for the grand privilege of spending the next several years picking fruit for pennies a day. Our grandparents did more than their measure of sharecropping, and it’s not what you’d call the lush life.
The same howling, saber-rattling Americans who would build giant fences and close the border to anyone who isn’t from Europe would never think of getting rid of their beloved Consuela, who takes care of their bratty kids; or Raul, who faithfully trims their hedges every week.
They don’t look in the back of the house at their favorite high-end restaurant, where nearly the entire kitchen staff is comprised of hard working immigrants, many of whom speak very little English.
They don’t take notice when they drive past the farms and orchards of New Jersey and rural Pennsylvania - where the backbreaking planting, picking and packaging is performed by immigrants who rise well before dawn and work until they run out of daylight.
So no, don’t expect Black folks to come running when a controversy boils down to “us” versus “them.” If there’s one thing we’ve learned in 400 years, it’s that we are not included in “us.”
I wonder if next year the Mummers would sponsor a performance titled, “The Big Payback”, where Black strutters march up Broad Street whipping white folks at random and selling their children into slavery.
Not so funny now, is it?
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