This appeared on June 18, 2006
Dear Common Pleas Board of Judges:
(Scratch that.)
Dear Guys and Gals:
Some of you I know, some I'm meeting for the first time. But I know there is a deadline of Monday for the resumes of those seeking the venerable office of Minority Commissioner and let me assure you, as a newspaperman of 26 years and counting, I know the meaning of a deadline.
So if I don't get to grease your palm, er, meet with you personally in delivering my resume, please forgive me and accept this column in its place. I'm just trying to be timely.
Let's get started.
Born: Cincinnati, Ohio.
Favorite food: Cincinnati chili three-way, two Coneys on the side, with (onions, of course.)
High School: Walnut Hills High School, 1973-1975. School motto: "High on the Hill," but we don't really need to go there, do we? Senior photo with shoulder length hair and Grateful Dead T-shirt supplied upon request.
College: Earlham College, Richmond, Ind. B.S. Political Science, 1979. Team nickname, Hustlin' Quakers. Team mascot, bearded protester wearing "Boycott Grapes" T-shirt.
Professional experience: As stated, newspaperman 1979-present.
Professional accomplishments: Honorable mention, Pennsylvania Newspaper Publishers' Association, Keystone Press Award, for series exposing confusion on Common Pleas Court surrounding career of controversial judge and subsequent disorder in the courts.
(Hmmm, strike that.)
Professional accomplishments: Wrote series of laudatory profiles of (let's see, one, two, three, four, what the heck call it) five current Common Pleas Court judges. And darn proud of it.
Career high point: Called "a gentleman" by former First Lady Barbara Bush during 1992 presidential campaign appearance, simply for standing up when she came in the interview room.
Career low point: Had unfortunate weight gain commented on by soon-to-be-former state Rep. Elinor Z. Taylor, R-156th, of West Goshen.
Career notable point: Wrote story about alleged UFO sighting at former Lukens Steel Co. plant. (Never actually disproven, however.)
Qualifications: Punctual. Familiar with layout of Chester County Courthouse. Possess courthouse security card (expires, July 1, 2006.) Able, and willing, to vote "no" on any proposal by GOP colleagues, day or night, 24/7/365, with sole exception of enormous budget increases for judiciary departments of county government, which may or may not include line item for new 60G iPods for current Common Pleas Court members.
Political aspirations: It's not about me. I'm just here to help the team.
Platform: It is far past time to free the citizens of Chadds Ford from the cruel yoke of tyranny in Delaware County, in which it is lumped in with slouching municipalities such as Folcroft and Yeadon and Havertown, instead of standing proudly alongside Birmingham, Pocopson, Thornbury, Coatesville and Modena. When we cut Delco loose back in 17-whatever, how were we supposed to know that the masterful genius of the Wyeth clan would choose that township to settle in? We was hoodwinked, and its time to make what's wrong right.
Possible campaign slogan: "I've paid my dues, and most of my parking tickets."
Friday, June 23, 2006
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Going, Going ... Gone!
This appeared June 11, 2006
This was supposed to be a column about the monstrosity township officials in West Goshen are attempting to pass off to the unsuspecting public as their latest "park" - that steel-caged nightmare motorists on Route 100 can view under construction just outside West Chester.
That is, if they can stand the sight of it without screaming and shielding their children's eyes, like you would a particularly grim traffic accident.
And it still is about that, in a way. But more, it's about backyard softball, shady summer evenings, hitting your first home run and an inevitable loss of innocence.
Oh yeah, and beer.
Back in the middle of the Reagan Era, I used to play softball in a coed league with colleagues from the Daily Local News and various friends. The league didn't have a field of its own, and many of the games were scattered across the county - Lionville, Embreeville, a lot across from Schramm's manufacturing plant on Virginia Avenue near Henderson High, wherever.
But the favorite place for all of us to play was a lot we called Ashbridge Field, located in the Green Hills Farm section of West Goshen on, appropriately enough, Ashbridge Road.
We affectionately nicknamed the place "The Bandbox," because of its relatively tiny dimensions. People who had never dreamed of ever being able to jack one over the fence looked at the field and started doing their best Babe Ruth imitation.
It wasn't a formal baseball field, really. I thought of it mostly as some guy's backyard.
Sure, it had a backstop and benches for the players, a few bleacher seats and cutouts for home plate and the bases. But it was a little lopsided and you had to park your car on the grass, and every once in a while a foul ball would find its way into the next-door neighbor's hedges and you'd have to go root around for the ball for 10 minutes or so while everybody else waited.
In other words, it was the perfect place to play a softball game on an August night, then spend 45 minutes replaying the game over a few cold beers as twilight came on.
I decided to visit the field recently for the first time in decades, my idea being to compare its informal glory with the new Park on Route 100. But to my dismay, Ashbridge is gone.
In its place is Richard C. Cloud Park - Mr. Cloud, I assume, being the guy who built the field in his backyard. Ashbridge had been taken over by West Goshen, and is now part of its Recreational Gulag.
As I pulled into the new macadam parking lot and stared in disbelief at the concrete block dugouts, steel fences and regulation baselines, I spotted with horror the ultimate symbol that the party was over for my Field of Dreams: A sign grandly proclaimed the field's "Rules and Regulations."
Closed at dusk. Crowds must register with township. No open burning. All goofing off prosecuted. And, most depressingly: "Alcoholic beverages are prohibited in the parks."
Driving away from the field, I remember President Reagan once saying something about government being the problem and not the solution. Never have I agreed with him more.
The only benefit I took away from the change? One of the rules of the field stated plainly:
"Golf is prohibited."
This was supposed to be a column about the monstrosity township officials in West Goshen are attempting to pass off to the unsuspecting public as their latest "park" - that steel-caged nightmare motorists on Route 100 can view under construction just outside West Chester.
That is, if they can stand the sight of it without screaming and shielding their children's eyes, like you would a particularly grim traffic accident.
And it still is about that, in a way. But more, it's about backyard softball, shady summer evenings, hitting your first home run and an inevitable loss of innocence.
Oh yeah, and beer.
Back in the middle of the Reagan Era, I used to play softball in a coed league with colleagues from the Daily Local News and various friends. The league didn't have a field of its own, and many of the games were scattered across the county - Lionville, Embreeville, a lot across from Schramm's manufacturing plant on Virginia Avenue near Henderson High, wherever.
But the favorite place for all of us to play was a lot we called Ashbridge Field, located in the Green Hills Farm section of West Goshen on, appropriately enough, Ashbridge Road.
We affectionately nicknamed the place "The Bandbox," because of its relatively tiny dimensions. People who had never dreamed of ever being able to jack one over the fence looked at the field and started doing their best Babe Ruth imitation.
It wasn't a formal baseball field, really. I thought of it mostly as some guy's backyard.
Sure, it had a backstop and benches for the players, a few bleacher seats and cutouts for home plate and the bases. But it was a little lopsided and you had to park your car on the grass, and every once in a while a foul ball would find its way into the next-door neighbor's hedges and you'd have to go root around for the ball for 10 minutes or so while everybody else waited.
In other words, it was the perfect place to play a softball game on an August night, then spend 45 minutes replaying the game over a few cold beers as twilight came on.
I decided to visit the field recently for the first time in decades, my idea being to compare its informal glory with the new Park on Route 100. But to my dismay, Ashbridge is gone.
In its place is Richard C. Cloud Park - Mr. Cloud, I assume, being the guy who built the field in his backyard. Ashbridge had been taken over by West Goshen, and is now part of its Recreational Gulag.
As I pulled into the new macadam parking lot and stared in disbelief at the concrete block dugouts, steel fences and regulation baselines, I spotted with horror the ultimate symbol that the party was over for my Field of Dreams: A sign grandly proclaimed the field's "Rules and Regulations."
Closed at dusk. Crowds must register with township. No open burning. All goofing off prosecuted. And, most depressingly: "Alcoholic beverages are prohibited in the parks."
Driving away from the field, I remember President Reagan once saying something about government being the problem and not the solution. Never have I agreed with him more.
The only benefit I took away from the change? One of the rules of the field stated plainly:
"Golf is prohibited."
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Bridgid for Burgess?
This appeared June 4, 2006
I'm at the Market Street Grill and Kerry walks by. He owns the place.
"How am I going to kick start this campaign for minority commissioner?" I say. "The ground hasn't even puffed, let alone swelled."
"Forget about it," says Kerry. "Phils are in it for a playoff spot, maybe two! Rollins wins the batting title and Howard takes the home run prize. Could be sweet!"
"Did the doctors decide to up your meds or something?" I say. "Look, I put people on notice two weeks ago that I'm the perfect choice, and not one call! Best I got was a good luck note from 'Amy in Texas,' but I don't think she's even registered."
"Forget about it," says Kerry. "The Braves are a pushover, and the Mets are a fabrication of the sportswriting media. By the time July 4 rolls around, we could be in sole possession of first place, and maybe even second, too! Oooh, sweet!"
"I hear they are making lots of progress in treating illnesses of the mind these days," I say. "Look, I've carved out a policy niche that no one else seems to have tapped. No one has even come close to calling for the annexation of Chadds Ford, but what do I get? Not even an old 'I'm proud to be a Chester County Democrat' badge."
Bridgid, the manager, walks by. She's now playing forward for the Philadelphia Pirates of the Women's Premier Soccer League.
"Change your name," she says. "I'd go with Smedley, as in Smedley Darlington, 1827-1899. He was kin to the other Darlingtons - Issac, William, Edward, that lot - and spent four glorious years representing the old 6th Congressional District. Plus, Smedley Butler's named after him. He may never have been elected, but Ol' Gimlet Eye knew a thing or two about politics."
I look at Kerry. He blinks. Hard. Ever since she scored the winning goal over the Northhampton Laurels, the girl's got delusions of grandeur.
"Forget about it," says Kerry. "August, I figure 22, 23 wins, no problem. We wrap up home field advantage by Labor Day and just wait for the Cards to hand us the first three of five. Sweet-ness!"
"You should lie down when the furies come," I say. "Look, I can't just go around thinking that just because I've met the president judge's parents and can find my way to the fifth floor of the courthouse without an escort that I'm a shoo-in. I need a campaign strategy. Something like Dinniman's 'I'll-even-wax-your-car-if-you-vote-for-me' plan."
Mr. Handforth - Bridgid's dad - pokes his head out from the kitchen.
"You should be a burgess," he says. "Like Channing Way, 1877-1954, son of Marshall and Anna Eliza Smedley Way. Dad served as burgess of West Chester from '95 to '96 - 1895, you understand - and sonny boy took over the family businesses, so to speak, in 1919."
Kerry looks at me. I blink. Very hard. Mr. Handforth must think his daughter's going to start in the World Cup this week.
"Forget about it," says Kerry. "I could get field level seats, maybe even on the field, for the World Series and ..."
Kerry keeps talking but I stop listening. I need a campaign manager, somebody who can get this thing off the ground.
I leave the grill, wondering who it could be. Then I see him across the street.
"Hey, Freddie Gusz!" says I.
I'm at the Market Street Grill and Kerry walks by. He owns the place.
"How am I going to kick start this campaign for minority commissioner?" I say. "The ground hasn't even puffed, let alone swelled."
"Forget about it," says Kerry. "Phils are in it for a playoff spot, maybe two! Rollins wins the batting title and Howard takes the home run prize. Could be sweet!"
"Did the doctors decide to up your meds or something?" I say. "Look, I put people on notice two weeks ago that I'm the perfect choice, and not one call! Best I got was a good luck note from 'Amy in Texas,' but I don't think she's even registered."
"Forget about it," says Kerry. "The Braves are a pushover, and the Mets are a fabrication of the sportswriting media. By the time July 4 rolls around, we could be in sole possession of first place, and maybe even second, too! Oooh, sweet!"
"I hear they are making lots of progress in treating illnesses of the mind these days," I say. "Look, I've carved out a policy niche that no one else seems to have tapped. No one has even come close to calling for the annexation of Chadds Ford, but what do I get? Not even an old 'I'm proud to be a Chester County Democrat' badge."
Bridgid, the manager, walks by. She's now playing forward for the Philadelphia Pirates of the Women's Premier Soccer League.
"Change your name," she says. "I'd go with Smedley, as in Smedley Darlington, 1827-1899. He was kin to the other Darlingtons - Issac, William, Edward, that lot - and spent four glorious years representing the old 6th Congressional District. Plus, Smedley Butler's named after him. He may never have been elected, but Ol' Gimlet Eye knew a thing or two about politics."
I look at Kerry. He blinks. Hard. Ever since she scored the winning goal over the Northhampton Laurels, the girl's got delusions of grandeur.
"Forget about it," says Kerry. "August, I figure 22, 23 wins, no problem. We wrap up home field advantage by Labor Day and just wait for the Cards to hand us the first three of five. Sweet-ness!"
"You should lie down when the furies come," I say. "Look, I can't just go around thinking that just because I've met the president judge's parents and can find my way to the fifth floor of the courthouse without an escort that I'm a shoo-in. I need a campaign strategy. Something like Dinniman's 'I'll-even-wax-your-car-if-you-vote-for-me' plan."
Mr. Handforth - Bridgid's dad - pokes his head out from the kitchen.
"You should be a burgess," he says. "Like Channing Way, 1877-1954, son of Marshall and Anna Eliza Smedley Way. Dad served as burgess of West Chester from '95 to '96 - 1895, you understand - and sonny boy took over the family businesses, so to speak, in 1919."
Kerry looks at me. I blink. Very hard. Mr. Handforth must think his daughter's going to start in the World Cup this week.
"Forget about it," says Kerry. "I could get field level seats, maybe even on the field, for the World Series and ..."
Kerry keeps talking but I stop listening. I need a campaign manager, somebody who can get this thing off the ground.
I leave the grill, wondering who it could be. Then I see him across the street.
"Hey, Freddie Gusz!" says I.
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