I rarely comment on the content of other media outlets for several reasons: one, there are already more than enough media critics capable of doing the job; two, being a member of the same industry, criticizing my peers seems a bit hypocritical and more than a little self-righteous; and three, (and this is the most frequent reason) generally speaking, I don’t care.
But I was instructed by a good friend to listen to Power 99’s Golden Girl after 10 PM – so I tuned in.
Now, I will be the first to admit, I am not exactly a fan of hip-hop. Having become too old to listen to any music at ear-splitting volume, and too worldly to adopt a ridiculous pseudo-macho stance, I am clearly no longer a member of the younger generation. I think the last rap release I bought was Public Enemy’s “Fear of a Black Planet” in 1990 - on cassette tape, no less.
I’m a jazz and blues man through and through, and up until a couple of years ago, could usually be found playing bass with a blues band most weekends. So I pretend no degree of familiarity with the slang, mindset, and thought processes of the usual Power 99 listener.
Nonetheless, I was slightly alarmed when in the second hour of Golden Girl’s show she launched into a segment called “Lock Down The Love”, where listeners can call in and dedicate a song to their “Boo” who is ‘on lock’ - on lock being what used to be called incarcerated. After all, Golden Girl exclaims, “Thugs need hugs too”.
And call they did.
Lots of women, and one or two men, phoned in to pledge their undying love to their jailhouse honey, wishing them sweet dreams and a speedy return to society. A few took the time to claim their sweethearts’ innocence, or condemn the cruel criminal justice system responsible for their predicament.
Listening, while alternately laughing out loud and shaking my head ruefully, I was struck by the fact that some of these folks are in serious denial. Seriously, if your Boo had been anything close to the sweet, honest, upright human being you claim, they might not be on lock in the first place.
And roll this one around for a minute: if your Boo is on lock, do you really want him in a sad and romantic mood late at night, listening to your Brian McKnight slow jam dedication, with no one to turn to for comfort except his cell mate? No, you don’t.
What about Boo himself? He knows that his friends, neighbors and relatives on the outside are listening to the show, and now they all know that the girlfriend he left behind is lonely and in need of affection. How long, he wonders, before one of those friends is knocking at her door, offering a shoulder to cry on and much more? Well, at least he’s got all night to think about it.
On another night, I was just about to turn off the radio when I found out it was “DNA Monday” and stopped in my tracks. If Lock Down The Love was something else, I figured, then this has got to be the topper. Golden Girl again did not disappoint.
Twice as funny, and yet twice as sad, as Lock Down The Love; Golden Girl touts DNA Monday as the means of finding out “who’s your real baby daddy?” Taking the DNA test scenario farther than even Maury Povich would dare, DNA Monday offers home test kits, and DNA tests on layaway, or if you prefer, easy payment plans.
Sometimes, you truly don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
There was a time when a young woman would have been embarrassed to admit that her baby’s father can’t actually be identified, only narrowed down to several choices. Back in the day, mortified parents would send the unmarried teen “down South”, to return six months later with a new “little brother”.
Girlfriends and relatives of the incarcerated would say he was “away at school”, or again, the ever-useful “down South”, rather than admit he had committed a crime and was serving time.
I suppose the lifting of these social stigmas is merely a reflection of how our culture is changing, and how sometimes those changes are so subtle they seem to slip right past us. I don’t know exactly when this particular change happened, but I clearly missed it.
I was probably out buying “Fear Of A Black Planet” on cassette.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Crossing Over On Public Transportation
Many Philadelphians were shocked and horrified by the news earlier this week that a man had died on SEPTA’s Nite Owl shuttle bus, which replaces the Market-Frankford El in the wee hours of the morning.
68 year-old Leonard Sedden, unconscious, soaked in urine and apparently under the influence of heavy intoxicants, made it from one end of the line, the 69th Street Terminal in Upper Darby, all the way to the other, the Frankford Transportation Center – apparently dying somewhere en route.
A sad case, and as usual, there’s plenty of finger pointing to go around, but we’ll get to the ‘he said, she said’ later. Right now, let’s talk for a minute about those shocked and horrified Philadelphians. I’m willing to bet money that not one of them is a regular SEPTA rider, least of all a regular late night rider.
That’s because any late night SEPTA rider can tell you stories right off the top of their head of unsavory characters, in various states of inebriation, riding the buses and rails when the rest of the city is asleep. Having worked the late shift myself, and taken many trains, buses and trolleys to get home, I’ve run across (and tripped over) quite a few.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen unconscious and semi-conscious riders sprawled out and nodding in a corner seat. Sometimes they don’t move or make a sound, perhaps curled up in a fetal position across several seats. I also can’t guarantee that all of them were alive at the time. If the smell was any indication, maybe not. But I can tell you that more often than not, people just check their seat for wet spots before they sit down, then hold their noses and ride to their destination without giving it another thought.
I don’t know how many people rode the bus with the deceased Mr. Sedden, but there’s no indication that any of them even noted his presence. And on this point, I am not surprised at all.
The bus driver, however, did notice.
A published transcript of the communications between the driver, Natika Manfra, and a control supervisor showed the driver voicing concern about the passenger's condition when she first got on the bus early Sunday morning. She reported he had urinated his pants and was drooling and unresponsive.
The control supervisor told Manfra to depart on schedule at 4:12 AM and that a route supervisor would meet the bus later. "I don't want to delay service," the supervisor said.
A route supervisor boarded the bus at 15th and Market and determined that the man was still breathing, according to SEPTA officials. The supervisor advised Manfra to continue on her route to Frankford Transportation Center, so police could handle the situation.
By the time police boarded the bus at Frankford about 5:30 AM, Sedden was dead.
According to the Medical Examiner’s Office, Sedden, whose last known address was a Center City homeless shelter, died of drug intoxication and hypertensive heart disease.
When the news reports of the incident sparked public outcry, SEPTA officials went into full damage control mode, defending the decisions of both the control and route supervisors - and while not being directly accusatory, managed to lay blame at the feet of Natika Manfra. (One could say “threw her under the bus”, but that would just be too easy.)
The supervisors followed protocol, says SEPTA management, which states that help will be dispatched if there is evidence of a medical emergency, or if the driver specifically requests an ambulance or police backup. Because Manfra did not specifically ask for an ambulance, and because there was no sense of distress or urgency in her radio calls, well, it’s not their fault - so no harm, no foul.
Even more frightening, SEPTA management claims these situations are not that unusual, and that as many as a dozen people die each year on Philadelphia’s buses, trains, and trolleys.
Gives you something to think about next time you board a bus or train late at night, doesn’t it? I mean, is that smelly guy in the corner seat just sleeping off a drunken, drug-fueled binge, or has he already rung down the curtain and joined the Choir Invisible?
It also makes me wonder how many dead people I’ve already criss-crossed the city with over the years.
Maybe it’s the cynic in me, but I’m thinking before long SEPTA will add this to the list of passenger etiquette dos and don’ts displayed on most vehicles.
‘No eating, no drinking, no smoking, no loud music – and no dying. You might delay service.’
68 year-old Leonard Sedden, unconscious, soaked in urine and apparently under the influence of heavy intoxicants, made it from one end of the line, the 69th Street Terminal in Upper Darby, all the way to the other, the Frankford Transportation Center – apparently dying somewhere en route.
A sad case, and as usual, there’s plenty of finger pointing to go around, but we’ll get to the ‘he said, she said’ later. Right now, let’s talk for a minute about those shocked and horrified Philadelphians. I’m willing to bet money that not one of them is a regular SEPTA rider, least of all a regular late night rider.
That’s because any late night SEPTA rider can tell you stories right off the top of their head of unsavory characters, in various states of inebriation, riding the buses and rails when the rest of the city is asleep. Having worked the late shift myself, and taken many trains, buses and trolleys to get home, I’ve run across (and tripped over) quite a few.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen unconscious and semi-conscious riders sprawled out and nodding in a corner seat. Sometimes they don’t move or make a sound, perhaps curled up in a fetal position across several seats. I also can’t guarantee that all of them were alive at the time. If the smell was any indication, maybe not. But I can tell you that more often than not, people just check their seat for wet spots before they sit down, then hold their noses and ride to their destination without giving it another thought.
I don’t know how many people rode the bus with the deceased Mr. Sedden, but there’s no indication that any of them even noted his presence. And on this point, I am not surprised at all.
The bus driver, however, did notice.
A published transcript of the communications between the driver, Natika Manfra, and a control supervisor showed the driver voicing concern about the passenger's condition when she first got on the bus early Sunday morning. She reported he had urinated his pants and was drooling and unresponsive.
The control supervisor told Manfra to depart on schedule at 4:12 AM and that a route supervisor would meet the bus later. "I don't want to delay service," the supervisor said.
A route supervisor boarded the bus at 15th and Market and determined that the man was still breathing, according to SEPTA officials. The supervisor advised Manfra to continue on her route to Frankford Transportation Center, so police could handle the situation.
By the time police boarded the bus at Frankford about 5:30 AM, Sedden was dead.
According to the Medical Examiner’s Office, Sedden, whose last known address was a Center City homeless shelter, died of drug intoxication and hypertensive heart disease.
When the news reports of the incident sparked public outcry, SEPTA officials went into full damage control mode, defending the decisions of both the control and route supervisors - and while not being directly accusatory, managed to lay blame at the feet of Natika Manfra. (One could say “threw her under the bus”, but that would just be too easy.)
The supervisors followed protocol, says SEPTA management, which states that help will be dispatched if there is evidence of a medical emergency, or if the driver specifically requests an ambulance or police backup. Because Manfra did not specifically ask for an ambulance, and because there was no sense of distress or urgency in her radio calls, well, it’s not their fault - so no harm, no foul.
Even more frightening, SEPTA management claims these situations are not that unusual, and that as many as a dozen people die each year on Philadelphia’s buses, trains, and trolleys.
Gives you something to think about next time you board a bus or train late at night, doesn’t it? I mean, is that smelly guy in the corner seat just sleeping off a drunken, drug-fueled binge, or has he already rung down the curtain and joined the Choir Invisible?
It also makes me wonder how many dead people I’ve already criss-crossed the city with over the years.
Maybe it’s the cynic in me, but I’m thinking before long SEPTA will add this to the list of passenger etiquette dos and don’ts displayed on most vehicles.
‘No eating, no drinking, no smoking, no loud music – and no dying. You might delay service.’
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