This column originally appeared on Sunday, Aug. 24, 2008
Shall we recap? We shall.
Earlier this month we posited that the leaders of West Chester had, and we put this as gently as we possibly could, lost their emphatically qualified marbles. That instead of staying straight on the Reality Expressway, they had taken the first available exit for Non Compos Mentisville. That they had collectively started dressing up as the Emperor Napoleon and were anxiously planning a late summer vacation to the Funny Farm.
That is, they’d gone crazy.
Why? Because of their decision to join the Delaware Valley Regional Planning Commission’s effort to promote places like Bristol, Collingswood, N.J., and Lansdowne as “Classic Towns.” It’s billed as a way of marketing the borough as a place to live, getting its name out there in the public’s eye so that it does not fall off the map. Sort of like Jessica Simpson appearing in ads for that beer in Dallas, except without the blonde curls and shiny teeth.
I argued — quite convincingly, I might add — that the last thing West Chester needs, besides Jessica Simpson bringing the freshmen at West Chester University a couple dozen six packs, is more people. People we’ve got. People, check. Adequate parking spaces, convenient Cincinnati chili parlors and nearby public swimming pools, no; people, yes.
What I wanted, I wrote, was for the good folks at the DVRPC to devise a strategy for keeping people away from West Chester, possibly using some sort of cloaking device that would render the borough invisible so newcomers to the area, driving south of King of Prussia on Route 202 looking for a good place to spend the rest of their lives, would end up buying real estate in Modena.
Ask, sayeth the Lord, and ye shall receive.
The same day that my thoughts appeared in this space, the Associated Press reported that scientists at the University of California, Berkeley, announced that they were a step closer to developing materials that could render people and objects invisible.
“Researchers have demonstrated for the first time that they were able to cloak three-dimensional objects using artificially engineered materials that redirect light around the objects,” the AP said. “Previously, they only have been able to cloak very thin two-dimensional objects, like Jessica Simpson’s summer reading list.”
OK, I added that last part. But it is clear that researchers are well on their way to providing the technology that would allow us to keep West Chester more to ourselves than the “Classic Towns” folks would have it. This is great news, because heretofore I understood that the soonest the cloaking technology was going to be available was sometime in the mid-23rd century, and then it was going to be used exclusively by the Romulans to hide their Battle Cruisers until they were ready to fire their Plasma Torpedoes at the starship Enterprise. Or some such thing.
Think of it. Gone would be the need for another tedious version of “Landscapes” to protect our open spaces. When suburban sprawlers came knocking, we just wouldn’t be home. And there would be other uses that we could put the cloaking device to, I’m sure. Flip the switch and — blink! — there goes that unsightly new condo development across the street. Crank the handle and — whizzo! — gone are those annoying political signs left along the roadside. Fire that puppy up and — shazzam! — no more having to look at the line of cars stretching out before you on Route 202 on your way to work.
And more to the point, one turn of the knob and — presto chango! — goodbye Jessica Simpson.
Showing posts with label West Chester. Show all posts
Showing posts with label West Chester. Show all posts
Monday, August 25, 2008
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Contrary To Ordinary
This column originally appeared on Sunday, Aug. 10, 2008
I do not mean to be a contrarian.
My aim in life is not to be contrary. When I have an idle moment, I do not plot out ways to be contrary. When I was 8 years old and I was hanging out with the guys in my second grade class and we were discussing what we wanted to be when we grew up – fireman, policeman, white collar criminal -- I did not offer up the notion that no matter what the other aspects of my eventual career – spiffy uniform, cool company car, fat pension benefits, five weeks paid vacation, etc. – I wanted to make certain I would be able to get in arguments with people at the drop of an opinion.
So please do not take what I am about to say as the ranting of someone who just wants to take the opposing position, no matter what. It just comes natural with me.
Are the people who run West Chester crazy?
Last month, West Chester Borough Council Vice President Charles A. “Chuck” Christy got together in a room with a guy dressed up like Benjamin Franklin and signed a “Declaration of Classic Towns” to launch a regional marketing campaign developed to spotlight 11 communities across the Delaware Valley as “desirable places to live, work, play and prosper.”
I have few hard and fast rules in life: Always over-tip. Always pick the Phillies to lose. Never buy a hamburger from someone dressed as a clown. And never involve yourself in an event at which there is a man dressed up as Ben Franklin. It can only lead to no good.
So with Ben in the picture, immediately I had my reservations about this “Classic Towns” effort. As I understand it, some folks in the borough are going to pay the Delaware Valley Regional Planning Commission good money to go out and talk up West Chester so that more people come and live and work and play and prosper here. "Every year hundreds of thousands of people relocate and choose where they will live," said Barry Seymour, executive director of the DVRPC. The “Classic Towns” program "will help the communities market themselves (and) become the communities of choice."
To which I rejoined, “And that’s a good thing?”
For the life of me, I have not noticed that West Chester faces a shortage of people choosing to live here, or work here, or – and the folks who listen fondly to the wolves howling on High Street after midnight on weekends will bear me out on this – play here. I have not noticed that there are gaping holes in the retail market here. I have not noticed that the borough’s landscape resembles that of a ghost town.
As far as I can tell, we’re fine. We really don’t need any help in letting people know that we’re on the map. If we did, we’d only have to turn to Brandon “Bam” Margera, who would gladly go on national cable television and vomit on the “Welcome to West Chester” sign, or whatever, and we’d have free marketing for a year.
Here’s what I want. I want to create a regional marketing campaign to get people to stay away from West Chester. I want to keep them from coming into the borough at all hours of the day and night, clogging up the streets, begging for parking meter quarters, jamming the lines at the Growers Market on Saturday mornings, and driving up the high cost of locally produced beer. I want the DVRPC to devise a way of cloaking West Chester so that people driving south on Route 202 looking for good places to spend the rest of their lives end up buying real estate in Modena.
Some people say this sort of attitude is close minded, chauvinistic and small. I say: “To the contrary.”
I do not mean to be a contrarian.
My aim in life is not to be contrary. When I have an idle moment, I do not plot out ways to be contrary. When I was 8 years old and I was hanging out with the guys in my second grade class and we were discussing what we wanted to be when we grew up – fireman, policeman, white collar criminal -- I did not offer up the notion that no matter what the other aspects of my eventual career – spiffy uniform, cool company car, fat pension benefits, five weeks paid vacation, etc. – I wanted to make certain I would be able to get in arguments with people at the drop of an opinion.
So please do not take what I am about to say as the ranting of someone who just wants to take the opposing position, no matter what. It just comes natural with me.
Are the people who run West Chester crazy?
Last month, West Chester Borough Council Vice President Charles A. “Chuck” Christy got together in a room with a guy dressed up like Benjamin Franklin and signed a “Declaration of Classic Towns” to launch a regional marketing campaign developed to spotlight 11 communities across the Delaware Valley as “desirable places to live, work, play and prosper.”
I have few hard and fast rules in life: Always over-tip. Always pick the Phillies to lose. Never buy a hamburger from someone dressed as a clown. And never involve yourself in an event at which there is a man dressed up as Ben Franklin. It can only lead to no good.
So with Ben in the picture, immediately I had my reservations about this “Classic Towns” effort. As I understand it, some folks in the borough are going to pay the Delaware Valley Regional Planning Commission good money to go out and talk up West Chester so that more people come and live and work and play and prosper here. "Every year hundreds of thousands of people relocate and choose where they will live," said Barry Seymour, executive director of the DVRPC. The “Classic Towns” program "will help the communities market themselves (and) become the communities of choice."
To which I rejoined, “And that’s a good thing?”
For the life of me, I have not noticed that West Chester faces a shortage of people choosing to live here, or work here, or – and the folks who listen fondly to the wolves howling on High Street after midnight on weekends will bear me out on this – play here. I have not noticed that there are gaping holes in the retail market here. I have not noticed that the borough’s landscape resembles that of a ghost town.
As far as I can tell, we’re fine. We really don’t need any help in letting people know that we’re on the map. If we did, we’d only have to turn to Brandon “Bam” Margera, who would gladly go on national cable television and vomit on the “Welcome to West Chester” sign, or whatever, and we’d have free marketing for a year.
Here’s what I want. I want to create a regional marketing campaign to get people to stay away from West Chester. I want to keep them from coming into the borough at all hours of the day and night, clogging up the streets, begging for parking meter quarters, jamming the lines at the Growers Market on Saturday mornings, and driving up the high cost of locally produced beer. I want the DVRPC to devise a way of cloaking West Chester so that people driving south on Route 202 looking for good places to spend the rest of their lives end up buying real estate in Modena.
Some people say this sort of attitude is close minded, chauvinistic and small. I say: “To the contrary.”
Monday, July 07, 2008
A Winter Tale
This column originally appeared on Sunday, July 6, 2008
I haven’t thought about Winter for about four years now.
I’m speaking not of the three months between the December solstice and the March equinox, mind you. That’s winter, with a small “w.” I’m talking about Winter, the one-named fellow who several years ago vowed to visit every Starbucks in the world.
I wrote about Winter at a time when the borough of West Chester was one of the only places on the face of the earth that did not have a Starbuck franchise within its borders. Soi Yamato Nhongprue street, Pattaya, Thailand yes; Church Street, West Chester no. It galled me, frankly, because I could not fathom why a place with the character and cachet of West Chester wouldn’t rank a Starbucks, while a place like Dilworthtown would.
At the time I learned about Winter, I pointed out that Dilworthtown was the least reasonable place to put a Starbucks I could think of, since it was basically at the crossroads of Going Nowhere and Coming Back. I also noted that the Dilworthtown Starbucks isn’t actually in Dilworthtown, but is located instead along the side of Route 202 in one of those suburban strip malls that the good developers of Chester County have determined we need more and more of, just in case we get the urge for some TGI Friday’s grub on the way home from the Applebee’s.
I checked recently on Winter’s journey and found that he’s been to Starbucks locations in all 50 states, plus the District of Columbia and Puerto Rico. He’s been to ‘Bucks in 17 foreign countries. He’s been to the Grand Caffeine Outlets in Paoli and Kennett Square and Lionville and West Goshen and, yes, Dilworthtown. I have no idea if he bought the Starbucks’ CDs by Paul McCartney and Joni Mitchell when he was there, but I’ll assume for the record that he did and he uses them to assist in his astral yoga meditation veg-out sessions.
But my man Winter’s task has just gotten a little bit easier.
That’s correct. Starbucks last week announced it was going to close down 600 stores and scale back its plans to open new ones. The roasted bean empire is going to throw out those “underperforming” stores across the globe like yesterday’s grounds. From now on, people in New York and San Francisco and Asrafeih, Lebanon may actually have to cross the street to get a cup of that precious $4 latte on their way to their CyberDesk or InterJob or WebTimeClock, or whatever it is they call workplaces these days.
It was, after all, one of Starbuck’s executives in charge of development, the oddly named Launi Skinner, who famously declared that for high-priced java swillers, “Going to the other side of the street can be a barrier.”
According to the new York Times, the people at Starbucks were once so obsessed with finding perfect new locations for their steamed milk machines that they would look at demographics down to the education level in certain neighborhoods, or judge whether the traffic moved better on one side of a street than the other. “Starbucks commercial real estate executives were known for their rigor in selecting locations,” the Times decreed, quoting a Portland, Ore., real estate guy as saying “Now everybody copies them.”
Hopefully that copying did go overboard. Or else there are going to be a lot of vacant Quiznoses across the country.
The news should not come as a surprise, however. Everyone who ever told the joke about the new Starbucks opening in the men’s room of the old Starbucks knew this as going to happen. And despite new modalities in retail trends, old rules still apply. My mother was the best I ever knew at looking at a new business opening somewhere and saying, “Six months, tops.” She knew that you just didn’t open an Asian-Vegan-Fusion restaurant where the truck stop diner used to be.
I’m sure there are those who will be sad to see those Starbucks close. But it won’t be me. I’ve stayed away from the ‘Buckaroos on principle for several years now, even the one that now has sat in dead center West Chester since February.
For the record, Winter was there on opening day.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Save Me A Seat
This column originally appeared on Sunday, June 29, 2008
My friend Mike O’Rourke has taken to calling West Chester the “Peyton Place of Pennsylvania,” and not just because he has an innate fondness for alliteration. From miles away in Jacksonville, Fla., he reads my weekly columns and revels in the small-town dramas I describe.
So he’s going to love the Tale of the Missing Benches.
The benches, which sat in front of Mickey and Marina Cugino’s newsstand on West Gay Street until a few weeks ago, are not missing in the sense that a missing cat is missing. We know where they are, probably; they’re most likely at the West Chester Public Works utility yard, scattered in several pieces. We just don’t know exactly why they’re there.
The benches were among the last vestiges of the wooden pews that dotted each block of Gay Street at the time of its formal revitalization, circa 1980. They were placed along the downtown main drag to present a relaxed, village feel that would attract shoppers, give the weary a place to cool their heels, or provide skateboarders with something to jump off.
Over the years, however, the wooden benches were removed one by one because they became a haven not for the momentarily weary but for the continually tired. That is, people who sat in them all day, every day, because they had no place else to go. The benches became the borough’s Statue of Liberty, beckoning poor, huddled masses to our teeming shore. The homeless were sent, tempest-tost — or at least by police in Upper Darby wishing them out of their jurisdiction — to Gay Street.
And that’s where they sat, smoked and drank until they made a nuisance of themselves. Today, the only people who sit, smoke, drink and make nuisances of themselves on Gay Street pay the local saloon keepers good money to do so.
But not outside Cuginos. The benches at Cuginos stayed put for years, used primarily by the local folks for whom they were intended: The senior citizens taking a walk uptown to buy a lottery ticket. The local shopkeepers who wanted a break from behind the counter. The courthouse kibitzers who took a coffee break in the afternoon to slurp down some Italian water ice. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
Now the twin benches are gone. When I called to inquire, a helpful fellow at the borough’s public works office said they’d been “destroyed” in a weekend vandalism spree and had to be removed for safety’s sake, although that may have come as news to the people who were sitting on them moments before the Public Work staff showed up to saw them in half and cart them away.
The helpful fellow promised that the option of replacing the benches was being “looked into,” although he warned that financial pressures might delay their replacement for the discernible future, by which he could have meant “when hell freezes over.” He suggested that the Cuginos could buy their own benches and assume the liability for sitters therein. His attitude was about as welcoming toward the return of the benches as the Arizona Minutemen are to illegal Mexican immigrants.
But questions remain. Do we want to enhance the feel of our small town with the simple accessory of a park bench? Is there a message that we are sending by taking them away with no promise of a return? How important were the benches in front of Cuginos to the mission of providing downtown with a sense of community, no matter how small, limited or transient?
And, who will play Mia Farrow’s role in the upcoming production of “The Benches of Peyton Place?” Tune in tomorrow.
Editor’s note: This column was written Friday morning. On Friday afternoon, the borough installed a replacement bench in front of the newsstand. One down, one to go.
My friend Mike O’Rourke has taken to calling West Chester the “Peyton Place of Pennsylvania,” and not just because he has an innate fondness for alliteration. From miles away in Jacksonville, Fla., he reads my weekly columns and revels in the small-town dramas I describe.
So he’s going to love the Tale of the Missing Benches.
The benches, which sat in front of Mickey and Marina Cugino’s newsstand on West Gay Street until a few weeks ago, are not missing in the sense that a missing cat is missing. We know where they are, probably; they’re most likely at the West Chester Public Works utility yard, scattered in several pieces. We just don’t know exactly why they’re there.
The benches were among the last vestiges of the wooden pews that dotted each block of Gay Street at the time of its formal revitalization, circa 1980. They were placed along the downtown main drag to present a relaxed, village feel that would attract shoppers, give the weary a place to cool their heels, or provide skateboarders with something to jump off.
Over the years, however, the wooden benches were removed one by one because they became a haven not for the momentarily weary but for the continually tired. That is, people who sat in them all day, every day, because they had no place else to go. The benches became the borough’s Statue of Liberty, beckoning poor, huddled masses to our teeming shore. The homeless were sent, tempest-tost — or at least by police in Upper Darby wishing them out of their jurisdiction — to Gay Street.
And that’s where they sat, smoked and drank until they made a nuisance of themselves. Today, the only people who sit, smoke, drink and make nuisances of themselves on Gay Street pay the local saloon keepers good money to do so.
But not outside Cuginos. The benches at Cuginos stayed put for years, used primarily by the local folks for whom they were intended: The senior citizens taking a walk uptown to buy a lottery ticket. The local shopkeepers who wanted a break from behind the counter. The courthouse kibitzers who took a coffee break in the afternoon to slurp down some Italian water ice. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
Now the twin benches are gone. When I called to inquire, a helpful fellow at the borough’s public works office said they’d been “destroyed” in a weekend vandalism spree and had to be removed for safety’s sake, although that may have come as news to the people who were sitting on them moments before the Public Work staff showed up to saw them in half and cart them away.
The helpful fellow promised that the option of replacing the benches was being “looked into,” although he warned that financial pressures might delay their replacement for the discernible future, by which he could have meant “when hell freezes over.” He suggested that the Cuginos could buy their own benches and assume the liability for sitters therein. His attitude was about as welcoming toward the return of the benches as the Arizona Minutemen are to illegal Mexican immigrants.
But questions remain. Do we want to enhance the feel of our small town with the simple accessory of a park bench? Is there a message that we are sending by taking them away with no promise of a return? How important were the benches in front of Cuginos to the mission of providing downtown with a sense of community, no matter how small, limited or transient?
And, who will play Mia Farrow’s role in the upcoming production of “The Benches of Peyton Place?” Tune in tomorrow.
Editor’s note: This column was written Friday morning. On Friday afternoon, the borough installed a replacement bench in front of the newsstand. One down, one to go.
Monday, June 09, 2008
Little Known, Hard To Prove
This column originally appeared on Sunday, June 8, 2008.
Here are some things you may not know about Chester County.
These little-known and hard-to-substantiate tidbits of information may have escaped you during the history portion of your high school education — either because you didn’t live in Chester County when you went through that particular course of study and the teachers in Kansas City, Mo., didn’t think to include a syllabus item on an obscure-though-wealthy southeastern Pennsylvania county, or because you did live in Chester County when you went through that particular course of study but your teachers were more intent on clueing you in to the history of the Phoenicians or the Hammurabians or the Mesopotamians or other surging, vital cultures, knowledge of which is essential for understanding the current energy situation.
First, did you know that West Chester was the number two pick for county seat? The top pick? Tredyffrin, of course.
It seems that William Penn was quite partial to the Welsh who populated the eastern portion of Chester County back in the day. (And by “back in the day,” I don’t mean the Earl Baker-Bob Thompson-and-Pat O’Donnell day. I mean the Everybody-Dresses-Like-The-Guy-On-The-Quaker-Oats-Box day.) He proposed to local Welsh leaders Owain Glyndwr and Gruff Rhys that they pick a site where they would like the county seat of Chester to be located, within the bounds of their native Tredyffrin. Someplace along the beaten path where farmers could come and pay their taxes or take out a marriage license, and preferably a place whose name contained as few vowels as possible. (Consonant-to-Vowel Ratio, CVR, in name Tredyffrin — 8:2.)
Rhys and Glyndwr (CVR — 11:0), unfortunately, personified the great Welsh character trait of being exceedingly proscratinatory and were forever putting the decision off. “Coda i’n gynnar for,” Glyndwr could be heard to say when Penn asked him to name a suitable place. (Translated, “I’ll get up early tomorrow and let you know.”) “Na’i godi’n gynnar fory,” reiterated Rhys, when Penn sought him out. (Translated, “It’s at the top of my list, I swear.”)
Meanwhile, farmers were pressuring Penn to designate a county seat because they had no place to pay their taxes or take out marriage licenses, and what with being unable to balance their checkbooks because of the non-payment of taxes and a certain level of frustration over not being able to settle down with a wife and kids, they asked him to make a decision like, yesterday. So legend has it that Penn took a dart, aimed it at a map and decreed that wherever the dart landed, so would that be the county seat. Thwunmp! Hello, Dub-C, as they say.
(Five inches to the left? Hello, downtown Modena.)
Second, did you know that of all the elected county officials in Chester County listed on Wikipedia, from district attorney to jury commissioner, only one person’s name is a hyperlink that will direct you to more information on said person? And did you know that said person is Sheriff Carolyn Bunny Welsh? And that “Bunny” is not encased in quotation marks, like George Herman “Babe” Ruth or Eliot “Emperor’s Club” Spitzer? And that if you Google “Sheriff Bunny” the second link you see is to “I Shot the Sheriff” by Bob Marley and the (Bunny) Wailers?
Third, did you know that the police public affairs specialists in West Goshen speak only the Welsh English language (colloquially known as “Wenglish”) and that’s why they never tell us anything?
Here are some things you may not know about Chester County.
These little-known and hard-to-substantiate tidbits of information may have escaped you during the history portion of your high school education — either because you didn’t live in Chester County when you went through that particular course of study and the teachers in Kansas City, Mo., didn’t think to include a syllabus item on an obscure-though-wealthy southeastern Pennsylvania county, or because you did live in Chester County when you went through that particular course of study but your teachers were more intent on clueing you in to the history of the Phoenicians or the Hammurabians or the Mesopotamians or other surging, vital cultures, knowledge of which is essential for understanding the current energy situation.
First, did you know that West Chester was the number two pick for county seat? The top pick? Tredyffrin, of course.
It seems that William Penn was quite partial to the Welsh who populated the eastern portion of Chester County back in the day. (And by “back in the day,” I don’t mean the Earl Baker-Bob Thompson-and-Pat O’Donnell day. I mean the Everybody-Dresses-Like-The-Guy-On-The-Quaker-Oats-Box day.) He proposed to local Welsh leaders Owain Glyndwr and Gruff Rhys that they pick a site where they would like the county seat of Chester to be located, within the bounds of their native Tredyffrin. Someplace along the beaten path where farmers could come and pay their taxes or take out a marriage license, and preferably a place whose name contained as few vowels as possible. (Consonant-to-Vowel Ratio, CVR, in name Tredyffrin — 8:2.)
Rhys and Glyndwr (CVR — 11:0), unfortunately, personified the great Welsh character trait of being exceedingly proscratinatory and were forever putting the decision off. “Coda i’n gynnar for,” Glyndwr could be heard to say when Penn asked him to name a suitable place. (Translated, “I’ll get up early tomorrow and let you know.”) “Na’i godi’n gynnar fory,” reiterated Rhys, when Penn sought him out. (Translated, “It’s at the top of my list, I swear.”)
Meanwhile, farmers were pressuring Penn to designate a county seat because they had no place to pay their taxes or take out marriage licenses, and what with being unable to balance their checkbooks because of the non-payment of taxes and a certain level of frustration over not being able to settle down with a wife and kids, they asked him to make a decision like, yesterday. So legend has it that Penn took a dart, aimed it at a map and decreed that wherever the dart landed, so would that be the county seat. Thwunmp! Hello, Dub-C, as they say.
(Five inches to the left? Hello, downtown Modena.)
Second, did you know that of all the elected county officials in Chester County listed on Wikipedia, from district attorney to jury commissioner, only one person’s name is a hyperlink that will direct you to more information on said person? And did you know that said person is Sheriff Carolyn Bunny Welsh? And that “Bunny” is not encased in quotation marks, like George Herman “Babe” Ruth or Eliot “Emperor’s Club” Spitzer? And that if you Google “Sheriff Bunny” the second link you see is to “I Shot the Sheriff” by Bob Marley and the (Bunny) Wailers?
Third, did you know that the police public affairs specialists in West Goshen speak only the Welsh English language (colloquially known as “Wenglish”) and that’s why they never tell us anything?
Monday, June 02, 2008
Adventures in Education
This column originally appeared on Sunday, June 1, 2008
“Monsignor Edward Deliman, the pastor of St. Agnes Church, said he was very disappointed that the borough allowed the shop to open. ‘It’s very close to our school in a highly traveled part of town, next to a pizza shop. It’s distressing to us.’ ...
“Owner Jill McDevitt has a Bachelor of Arts degree in sexuality, marriage and family and is pursuing a Master of Education degree in human sexuality. She gives workshops and seminars on human sexuality as well as other topics.”
-- From Daily Local News, “Residents pack meeting to protest adult store,” May 29, 2008
****
SEMINAR TITLE: Current Topics in Human Sexuality and Selected Pizza Toppings.
INSTRUCTOR: J. McDevitt, B.A., Human Sexuality; M.E., Family Therapy (proposed); A.D., Culinary Arts, Baking and Pastry.
CREDITS: 35
DESCRIPTION: Human Sexuality and Pizza Toppings is a 10-week classroom-and-kitchen course that presents the student with an overview of current issues in human sexuality and the correct approach toward choosing proper pizza toppings, focusing on behavioral, sociological, environmental and gastronomical factors.
Topics will cover the basics of human anatomy, sexual cycles/phases, the family life cycle, gender/topping identity, roles of meat versus vegetable toppings, an understanding of sexual research, sexual orientation, proper cooking times, and the importance of sauces and fresh mozzarella.
Students will be expected to have experience in the field at an introductory or intermediate level. Previous courses in Biology 101, Introduction to Family Therapy and/or Popular Italian Foods 301 would be considered sufficient for admission to the seminar, although Professor McDevitt will also consider as proper credentials any time spent working as dough prep assistant at Grimaldi’s or Lombardi’s pizza restaurants in Brooklyn and New York City, respectively. Evidence of frozen pizza entree cooking experience will not be accepted.
OBJECTIVES: Students will learn to have a greater understanding about the social and biological implications of the sexual life/cycle in social and behavioral contexts, from childhood to adulthood; to be aware of the social complexities of human sexuality in modern life; to witness firsthand the obstacles of locating sexual novelty stores in formerly rural city-centers; and to discuss openly their choices of pepperoni, sausage and mushrooms over more advanced pizza toppings, such as raw eel, chicken tikka or roasted cauliflower.
While understanding that the way to a lover’s heart may be through the stomach, there should be a recognition by graduates that various modern, nontraditional forms of sexual behaviors — including homosexuality, bisexuality, transgendered sexuality, “lonely guy” syndrome, having a nice quart of ice cream before bedtime and cold-shower obsessive compulsive disorder — can work within the current structure of having the pizza crust soft but still crunchy enough to accommodate multiple toppings and extra cheese.
In addition, focusing on types of love, attraction, roles, relationships and delivery times will be essential for course success. It will be important for the student to understand the relationship between sex and love, to be aware of white versus red sauces, to grasp the importance of letting the pizza cool down enough so it does not burn the roof of your mouth, and to explore the different dynamics that couples have in selecting toppings for an intimate dinner for two with some salad and Chianti on the side, as opposed having the gang over for the Super Bowl party or Fantasy Baseball League get-together.
Ultimately, the graduate will search for and discover a personal definition of love that best suits his/her/their personal values and favorite blend of crust, cheese, and topping. Bon appetit!
REQUIRED READING: Hyde, J. S. & DeLamater, J. D. (2000). Understanding Human Sexuality (7th Ed.). Boston; McGraw-Hill; Steig, W. (1998). Pete’s A Pizza (Hardcover Ed.), New York City; HarperCollins.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Change That Matters
This column originally appeared on Sunday, May 18, 2008
My friend Rich Henson, of the West Chester Hensons, once found himself pulling into a parking spot somewhere in Philadelphia without the benefit of the proper coins with which to feed the meter. Fearing what might happen if sufficient time wasn’t added to the meter, he breezed into a nearby retail store with a dollar bill in hand.
“Might I exchange this paper Washington for four silver Georges?” Mr. Henson inquired politely of the proprietor.
“Whadduz this look like, the four-quarters-for-a-dollar store?” the friendly owner rejoined. Mr. Henson, chastised, found other means of exchanging his funds.
I tell that story to make this point: If you are contemplating a trip into the Borough of West Chester from your pricey but cheaply constructed McMansion in Developmentland, it would be incumbent on you to make a quick trip to the bank and fill up your SUV’s change dish with 25-cent pieces. That simple step would lead to a better life all around for everyone.
Parking meters are central to our life here in West Chester. Check that. Parking in general, and all its accompanying systems, is central to our life here in West Chester. And we who have grown so accustomed to the Facts of Parking Life 101 take it as an affront that those of you coming here from outside the borough’s four corners are showing up unprepared for the obstacle course that is our parking code.
Hence the borough’s latest municipal motto: “West Chester: Bring Quarters.” (Signs to be posted shortly.)
You wouldn’t think of going on a vacation to France without learning how to say, “Can I have some Freedom Fries with that souffle?” in the native lingo, would you? You wouldn’t think of going to Philadelphia without $10,000 in cash to bribe a city official, would you? But yet you come to our town without the one thing that is most necessary to making your stay here run smoothly. For shame.
Waitresses at West Chester restaurants spend so much of their time filling requests to make change for dollars to feed the parking meters on Gay Street that they have been known to let the various attorneys, judges, police officers, courthouse tipstaffs, state Senate legislative aides and real estate brokers who actually pay their salaries wait overtime to get their meals served.
And we all know what happens anyway, don’t we? You, having gotten your four quarters for a dollar, return to your car only to be confronted with one of our sunny, smiling, effervescent parking enforcement officers cranking out a parking ticket because your meter had no time on it.
“But I just ran in to get change!” you explain. “Can’t you see I was just away a minute? I’m sure you can just let me slide this one time, can’t you?”
“Sure! When pigs get the vote!” comes the cheery response. “See you soon! In court!”
There are myriad tales of the disputes that arise over parking in West Chester, with equally rude and antagonistic charges on both sides of the meter: The meter-person who berates the quizzical senior citizen over some minor infraction; the blustering insurance salesman who demands the officer’s badge even though he was 30 minutes behind schedule. It’s the Mideast conflict, without Jimmy Carter.
So it is obvious why Barack Obama did as well as he did here in the recent presidential primary, his message of “bringing change” resonating so clearly with voters in the borough.
We just thought he meant loose coins.
My friend Rich Henson, of the West Chester Hensons, once found himself pulling into a parking spot somewhere in Philadelphia without the benefit of the proper coins with which to feed the meter. Fearing what might happen if sufficient time wasn’t added to the meter, he breezed into a nearby retail store with a dollar bill in hand.
“Might I exchange this paper Washington for four silver Georges?” Mr. Henson inquired politely of the proprietor.
“Whadduz this look like, the four-quarters-for-a-dollar store?” the friendly owner rejoined. Mr. Henson, chastised, found other means of exchanging his funds.
I tell that story to make this point: If you are contemplating a trip into the Borough of West Chester from your pricey but cheaply constructed McMansion in Developmentland, it would be incumbent on you to make a quick trip to the bank and fill up your SUV’s change dish with 25-cent pieces. That simple step would lead to a better life all around for everyone.
Parking meters are central to our life here in West Chester. Check that. Parking in general, and all its accompanying systems, is central to our life here in West Chester. And we who have grown so accustomed to the Facts of Parking Life 101 take it as an affront that those of you coming here from outside the borough’s four corners are showing up unprepared for the obstacle course that is our parking code.
Hence the borough’s latest municipal motto: “West Chester: Bring Quarters.” (Signs to be posted shortly.)
You wouldn’t think of going on a vacation to France without learning how to say, “Can I have some Freedom Fries with that souffle?” in the native lingo, would you? You wouldn’t think of going to Philadelphia without $10,000 in cash to bribe a city official, would you? But yet you come to our town without the one thing that is most necessary to making your stay here run smoothly. For shame.
Waitresses at West Chester restaurants spend so much of their time filling requests to make change for dollars to feed the parking meters on Gay Street that they have been known to let the various attorneys, judges, police officers, courthouse tipstaffs, state Senate legislative aides and real estate brokers who actually pay their salaries wait overtime to get their meals served.
And we all know what happens anyway, don’t we? You, having gotten your four quarters for a dollar, return to your car only to be confronted with one of our sunny, smiling, effervescent parking enforcement officers cranking out a parking ticket because your meter had no time on it.
“But I just ran in to get change!” you explain. “Can’t you see I was just away a minute? I’m sure you can just let me slide this one time, can’t you?”
“Sure! When pigs get the vote!” comes the cheery response. “See you soon! In court!”
There are myriad tales of the disputes that arise over parking in West Chester, with equally rude and antagonistic charges on both sides of the meter: The meter-person who berates the quizzical senior citizen over some minor infraction; the blustering insurance salesman who demands the officer’s badge even though he was 30 minutes behind schedule. It’s the Mideast conflict, without Jimmy Carter.
So it is obvious why Barack Obama did as well as he did here in the recent presidential primary, his message of “bringing change” resonating so clearly with voters in the borough.
We just thought he meant loose coins.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Love! In The Name Of Stop (Signs)
This column originally appeared on Sunday, Feb. 3, 2008
You will please excuse us if we seem a little giddy here in West Chester. We’ve been celebrating the arrival of a new little bundle of joy that came last month, to our surprise and delight. And not just one bundle, but twins!
That’s right, folks. We have two, count ’em, two new stop signs in the borough. Right there at the corner of West Gay and North Darlington streets, right there in front of the best darn “five star restaurant” you’d ever want to chug down a beer tower in. We are so, as they say, blessed.
You know how we love our street signs here in West Chester. We are proud of them, as proud of them as any parent who has ever seen his or her son or daughter appear on “American Idol,” or “The Apprentice,” or “Cops!” or any other avenue to the world of fame and renown.
We make sure they are kept company with other signs, and even take them down now and then and clean them up a bit if they look too shopworn. When it gets too cold or icy, we have been known to bring them to our homes for an extra bit of warmth. We ask after their health on rainy days, and always remember them on national holidays.
We try not to play favorites among our signs, as any good parent would. We know that our “No Parking Anytime, Anywhere, Anyhow” signs are just as important and special and unique as our “Welcome to West Chester, Not East Coatesville” signs are. (We’re not going to talk about our “Route 842” signs. We understand that they are trying to find their own “special place” in the world, but sometimes things just don’t work out. We wish them well.) But, just as any good parent would, we can’t help but feel a little bit fonder of our stop signs than the others.
Maybe it’s because they’ve been around so much longer. Can you even imagine West Chester without stop signs? We can’t. We even took a drive the other day just to spend some time with our stop signs. In a 10-minute spin around the borough, we counted no fewer than 45 stop signs. That’s 4.5 stop signs every minute, sometimes four to a corner! Did we say how blessed we are?
We have noticed that outsiders coming into the borough jump right into the spirit of things when it comes to our stop signs. Sometimes drivers with out-of-state plates will even stop at a corner where there is no stop sign. We think they may be trying to tell us something, like: “What? You guys run out of octagons?”
Our new signs have taken some getting used to, however. Manys the time we see drivers blow past them like they were not even there. We were hoping that the folks at the Borough Hall would have put up a few signs notifying people about the new stop signs, but they were apparently too busy reneging on parking garage contracts to bother.
Oh well. We suppose that like all good children our new stop signs will learn to assert themselves, stand up and be noticed. When they do, we will be here for them.
You will please excuse us if we seem a little giddy here in West Chester. We’ve been celebrating the arrival of a new little bundle of joy that came last month, to our surprise and delight. And not just one bundle, but twins!
That’s right, folks. We have two, count ’em, two new stop signs in the borough. Right there at the corner of West Gay and North Darlington streets, right there in front of the best darn “five star restaurant” you’d ever want to chug down a beer tower in. We are so, as they say, blessed.
You know how we love our street signs here in West Chester. We are proud of them, as proud of them as any parent who has ever seen his or her son or daughter appear on “American Idol,” or “The Apprentice,” or “Cops!” or any other avenue to the world of fame and renown.
We make sure they are kept company with other signs, and even take them down now and then and clean them up a bit if they look too shopworn. When it gets too cold or icy, we have been known to bring them to our homes for an extra bit of warmth. We ask after their health on rainy days, and always remember them on national holidays.
We try not to play favorites among our signs, as any good parent would. We know that our “No Parking Anytime, Anywhere, Anyhow” signs are just as important and special and unique as our “Welcome to West Chester, Not East Coatesville” signs are. (We’re not going to talk about our “Route 842” signs. We understand that they are trying to find their own “special place” in the world, but sometimes things just don’t work out. We wish them well.) But, just as any good parent would, we can’t help but feel a little bit fonder of our stop signs than the others.
Maybe it’s because they’ve been around so much longer. Can you even imagine West Chester without stop signs? We can’t. We even took a drive the other day just to spend some time with our stop signs. In a 10-minute spin around the borough, we counted no fewer than 45 stop signs. That’s 4.5 stop signs every minute, sometimes four to a corner! Did we say how blessed we are?
We have noticed that outsiders coming into the borough jump right into the spirit of things when it comes to our stop signs. Sometimes drivers with out-of-state plates will even stop at a corner where there is no stop sign. We think they may be trying to tell us something, like: “What? You guys run out of octagons?”
Our new signs have taken some getting used to, however. Manys the time we see drivers blow past them like they were not even there. We were hoping that the folks at the Borough Hall would have put up a few signs notifying people about the new stop signs, but they were apparently too busy reneging on parking garage contracts to bother.
Oh well. We suppose that like all good children our new stop signs will learn to assert themselves, stand up and be noticed. When they do, we will be here for them.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Chester B. DeMille
This column originally appeared on Aug. 12, 2007
Maybe you saw the news that a New Mexico production company is proposing building a multi-million dollar film and television studio in the Philadelphia area. Maybe you didn’t. But then again, maybe you saw the major motion picture “Chubb-Chubbs Save Xmas,” and maybe you didn’t. I will tell you that from what I can gather, both productions rate about one star on my grading scale — out of a possible 100.
It’s not that I don’t love the idea of saving Xmas, or the whole Mid-Winter Holiday Season Concept for those of you atheists and pagans celebrating at home. Nor do I object to the idea of locating a film and television production facility in the Philadelphia area, for that matter.
No, when I read the story, the sentence that struck me as something for the cutting room floor was this one: “Pacifica” — that’s the name of the production company from New Mexico — “is looking at sites in Bucks, Delaware and Philadelphia counties.”
“Cut!” as they used to say in those Hollywood movies about Hollywood movies.
Never mind the fact that we’re dealing here with a company named Pacifica that’s located in a state that does not currently border the Pacific Ocean, or any ocean that I’m aware of. But here they are practically slapping us folks in Chester County who are of the firm belief that our hometown would make the perfect place for a studio, slapping us like Moe would slap Curly.
The announcement comes about a month after state lawmakers approved $75 million in film tax credits for the fiscal year that started July 1. Gov. Ed Rendell said at a news conference with the film production company’s chief, who is trying to put together a $10 million incentive package to get the studio project off the ground, that the idea was a natural for the Philly area.
Rendell said the Philadelphia region should be attractive to filmmakers for its variety of shooting locations, from rural farms to the gritty neighborhoods of the inner city. “This area has unlimited capacity for different scenes,” said Rendell, the former Philadelphia mayor and current Eagles acolyte. “You can't get urban grime in Albuquerque.”
Hey, yo, Ed! If you hadn’t looked, we got it all. You want rural, we’ve got rolling hillsides that roll into other rolling hillsides. You want grime, take a walk around Phoenixville sometime and see what ends up on the soles of your shoes. You want drama like the Western standoff in “High Noon”? Check out the battle between Borough Council in West Chester and their historic preservation comrades. You want comedy like the confused townsfolk in “Blazing Saddles”? Do the words, “Hear ye, hear ye! The Council of the City of Coatesville is now in session!” strike your funny bone?
According to the Associated Press, the Delaware Valley studio would need to grow to about 1 million square feet, comprising sound stages, production offices and other space. One million square feet is about the average size of a foyer in a Mcmansion in Upper Uwchlan. We’ve got square feet just sitting around waiting to be used — a lot of it in strip shopping centers that have nearby Quiznos, so catering wouldn’t be a problem.
And did I mention that Bam’s all set for his close-up?
Maybe you saw the news that a New Mexico production company is proposing building a multi-million dollar film and television studio in the Philadelphia area. Maybe you didn’t. But then again, maybe you saw the major motion picture “Chubb-Chubbs Save Xmas,” and maybe you didn’t. I will tell you that from what I can gather, both productions rate about one star on my grading scale — out of a possible 100.
It’s not that I don’t love the idea of saving Xmas, or the whole Mid-Winter Holiday Season Concept for those of you atheists and pagans celebrating at home. Nor do I object to the idea of locating a film and television production facility in the Philadelphia area, for that matter.
No, when I read the story, the sentence that struck me as something for the cutting room floor was this one: “Pacifica” — that’s the name of the production company from New Mexico — “is looking at sites in Bucks, Delaware and Philadelphia counties.”
“Cut!” as they used to say in those Hollywood movies about Hollywood movies.
Never mind the fact that we’re dealing here with a company named Pacifica that’s located in a state that does not currently border the Pacific Ocean, or any ocean that I’m aware of. But here they are practically slapping us folks in Chester County who are of the firm belief that our hometown would make the perfect place for a studio, slapping us like Moe would slap Curly.
The announcement comes about a month after state lawmakers approved $75 million in film tax credits for the fiscal year that started July 1. Gov. Ed Rendell said at a news conference with the film production company’s chief, who is trying to put together a $10 million incentive package to get the studio project off the ground, that the idea was a natural for the Philly area.
Rendell said the Philadelphia region should be attractive to filmmakers for its variety of shooting locations, from rural farms to the gritty neighborhoods of the inner city. “This area has unlimited capacity for different scenes,” said Rendell, the former Philadelphia mayor and current Eagles acolyte. “You can't get urban grime in Albuquerque.”
Hey, yo, Ed! If you hadn’t looked, we got it all. You want rural, we’ve got rolling hillsides that roll into other rolling hillsides. You want grime, take a walk around Phoenixville sometime and see what ends up on the soles of your shoes. You want drama like the Western standoff in “High Noon”? Check out the battle between Borough Council in West Chester and their historic preservation comrades. You want comedy like the confused townsfolk in “Blazing Saddles”? Do the words, “Hear ye, hear ye! The Council of the City of Coatesville is now in session!” strike your funny bone?
According to the Associated Press, the Delaware Valley studio would need to grow to about 1 million square feet, comprising sound stages, production offices and other space. One million square feet is about the average size of a foyer in a Mcmansion in Upper Uwchlan. We’ve got square feet just sitting around waiting to be used — a lot of it in strip shopping centers that have nearby Quiznos, so catering wouldn’t be a problem.
And did I mention that Bam’s all set for his close-up?
Monday, June 11, 2007
Don't Think Twice, It's All Right
This appeared on Sunday, June 10, 2007
I know what you‘re thinking. I hear what you‘re saying. But if you think that I‘m going to join in the chorus and sing along to the same tune, you should take a deep breath, lie down, and let the notion pass.
You say that the streets of West Chester are a bit torn up. You say that ”a bit torn up“ is just a polite way of saying that the surface of the moon provides a better ride than the streets of West Chester. You say that driving in downtown Qurghorteppa, Tajikistan, is a smoother commute than trying to make it around the streets of West Chester.
You think that the fact that the ruts on our streets here in West Chester look like the canals of Venice without the water makes life here unpleasant. You think that the fact that our potholes have developed potholes is something that the borough elders should be concerned about. You think that we West Chester residents must dread making our way up West Market Street the way U.S. Attorney General Albert Gonzalez dreads walking into the U.S. Senate Judicial Committee hearing room.
But all of that just proves that you don‘t know us.
We don‘t complain that the streets are a bit torn up. We don‘t complain that making a quick trip on the borough‘s blacktop is something like jumping on one of those electric ”Bucking Bronco“ rides outside the local K-Mart, with its endless back-and-forth and up-and-down rocking motion, only more expensive. We don‘t complain that, because of the roadwork detours in the borough, our path from one end of the town to the other now resembles the route taken by the mouse who gets put in a maze and has to find the block of cheese without getting an electric shock.
We don‘t complain, because we quit complaining about our streets sometime in the late years of the George H.W. Bush administration. Complaining about the street conditions in West Chester is by its own nature the very definition of pointlessness. When new neighbors who have moved here from the relatively well-maintained streets of Qurghorteppa, Tajikistan, start to complain about street conditions in West Chester, we look at them and smile the sad smile of a wizened parent about to tell their child that simply asking Santa to bring you a wide-screen, flat-panel, wall-hanging HDTV with TiVo access and satellite dish hookup doesn‘t necessarily mean that it‘s going to be sitting underneath the tree on Christmas morning.
More than that, however, is that we know that at some point all this trouble is going to lead to something beautiful. We know that, like the aging starlet who has bandages wrapped all around her face from the tuck ‘n‘ lift performed at Dr. 90210‘s office, soon everything is going to look 20 years younger and a whole lot smoother.
We know this because every winter the snow piles up over our cars and the ice forms in chunks over the roads and we can‘t find a parking space without plowing through a small mountain of slush. And within the span of just a few short months, it‘s all gone and we‘re back to life as we love it.
Dodging potholes.
I know what you‘re thinking. I hear what you‘re saying. But if you think that I‘m going to join in the chorus and sing along to the same tune, you should take a deep breath, lie down, and let the notion pass.
You say that the streets of West Chester are a bit torn up. You say that ”a bit torn up“ is just a polite way of saying that the surface of the moon provides a better ride than the streets of West Chester. You say that driving in downtown Qurghorteppa, Tajikistan, is a smoother commute than trying to make it around the streets of West Chester.
You think that the fact that the ruts on our streets here in West Chester look like the canals of Venice without the water makes life here unpleasant. You think that the fact that our potholes have developed potholes is something that the borough elders should be concerned about. You think that we West Chester residents must dread making our way up West Market Street the way U.S. Attorney General Albert Gonzalez dreads walking into the U.S. Senate Judicial Committee hearing room.
But all of that just proves that you don‘t know us.
We don‘t complain that the streets are a bit torn up. We don‘t complain that making a quick trip on the borough‘s blacktop is something like jumping on one of those electric ”Bucking Bronco“ rides outside the local K-Mart, with its endless back-and-forth and up-and-down rocking motion, only more expensive. We don‘t complain that, because of the roadwork detours in the borough, our path from one end of the town to the other now resembles the route taken by the mouse who gets put in a maze and has to find the block of cheese without getting an electric shock.
We don‘t complain, because we quit complaining about our streets sometime in the late years of the George H.W. Bush administration. Complaining about the street conditions in West Chester is by its own nature the very definition of pointlessness. When new neighbors who have moved here from the relatively well-maintained streets of Qurghorteppa, Tajikistan, start to complain about street conditions in West Chester, we look at them and smile the sad smile of a wizened parent about to tell their child that simply asking Santa to bring you a wide-screen, flat-panel, wall-hanging HDTV with TiVo access and satellite dish hookup doesn‘t necessarily mean that it‘s going to be sitting underneath the tree on Christmas morning.
More than that, however, is that we know that at some point all this trouble is going to lead to something beautiful. We know that, like the aging starlet who has bandages wrapped all around her face from the tuck ‘n‘ lift performed at Dr. 90210‘s office, soon everything is going to look 20 years younger and a whole lot smoother.
We know this because every winter the snow piles up over our cars and the ice forms in chunks over the roads and we can‘t find a parking space without plowing through a small mountain of slush. And within the span of just a few short months, it‘s all gone and we‘re back to life as we love it.
Dodging potholes.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Boro' to 'Bucks: Drop Dead
This appeared on Sunday, April 22, 2007
Remember when you were a freshman in college and there was this person, this beautiful blond, who you really wanted to meet? Maybe get to know them, maybe start a relationship, maybe propose, maybe settle down, maybe raise a family and buy a mortgage and send the kids to college and celebrate each other‘s 50th birthday and retire to the South of France with? Remember that?
But they weren‘t having any of you. They were just way too cool for you, and they had other friends to be with and places to go and Spring Break vacations to take, and you, well, you just weren‘t up to their speed. Remember that?
Then you made a splash in the college newspaper because you had been cast in whatever MTV reality show was debuting that September (or whatever the 1960s equivalent of the MTV reality shows were), and all of a sudden your dream person started showing up at your dorm room around 7:30 a.m. wanting to know if you could accompany them to the cafeteria for breakfast and maybe have a ”study break“ later and then send the kids to college and retire to the South of France with. Remember that?
Then you will know how we felt when we heard the news that Starbucks is planning to open a café in West Chester.
After all this time, the Starbucks folks have decided that we here in West Chester are classy enough to be part of their ultra-hip, ubiquitous coffee culture. Not only will Starbucks come to town, but they‘ll be plopping down right smack dab in the middle of the borough, at the corner of High and Gay, where nobody can miss them, not even a West Chester University student walking home at 2:30 a.m. from a ”study break“ at Rex‘s Bar.
We are not amused.
Remember, this is the coffee company that decided it was better to open cafes in Paoli, Chester Springs, Kennett Square, Exton and Downingtown before coming to our fair borough. Remember, this is the coffee company that opened four, count ‘em, four outlets in Johore Bahru, Malaysia, before it opened one in downtown West Chester.
You think we‘re happy? You think we are going to start counting down the days until we can order up a grande of Ethiopean Yergachefee and crank up the Norah Jones on our iPods at the ‘Bucks? You couldn‘t be farther from the truth if you were Albert Gonzalez trying to explain the attorney general firings.
Read our lips, Starbucks folks: We don‘t want you anymore. We are not going to fall for your newly discovered attraction for our brick sidewalks, our historical county courthouse, our brightly painted street signs, our newly elected Democratic state legislators, and just roll over and order whatever size Breakfast Blend you tell us to, like we fell for that beautiful blond back in college.
You had your chance. We asked, nearly begged, for you to come here years ago and you ignored us. Coffee love has a small window of opportunity, and for you we have slammed it shut.
Now The Gap, on the other hand ...
Remember when you were a freshman in college and there was this person, this beautiful blond, who you really wanted to meet? Maybe get to know them, maybe start a relationship, maybe propose, maybe settle down, maybe raise a family and buy a mortgage and send the kids to college and celebrate each other‘s 50th birthday and retire to the South of France with? Remember that?
But they weren‘t having any of you. They were just way too cool for you, and they had other friends to be with and places to go and Spring Break vacations to take, and you, well, you just weren‘t up to their speed. Remember that?
Then you made a splash in the college newspaper because you had been cast in whatever MTV reality show was debuting that September (or whatever the 1960s equivalent of the MTV reality shows were), and all of a sudden your dream person started showing up at your dorm room around 7:30 a.m. wanting to know if you could accompany them to the cafeteria for breakfast and maybe have a ”study break“ later and then send the kids to college and retire to the South of France with. Remember that?
Then you will know how we felt when we heard the news that Starbucks is planning to open a café in West Chester.
After all this time, the Starbucks folks have decided that we here in West Chester are classy enough to be part of their ultra-hip, ubiquitous coffee culture. Not only will Starbucks come to town, but they‘ll be plopping down right smack dab in the middle of the borough, at the corner of High and Gay, where nobody can miss them, not even a West Chester University student walking home at 2:30 a.m. from a ”study break“ at Rex‘s Bar.
We are not amused.
Remember, this is the coffee company that decided it was better to open cafes in Paoli, Chester Springs, Kennett Square, Exton and Downingtown before coming to our fair borough. Remember, this is the coffee company that opened four, count ‘em, four outlets in Johore Bahru, Malaysia, before it opened one in downtown West Chester.
You think we‘re happy? You think we are going to start counting down the days until we can order up a grande of Ethiopean Yergachefee and crank up the Norah Jones on our iPods at the ‘Bucks? You couldn‘t be farther from the truth if you were Albert Gonzalez trying to explain the attorney general firings.
Read our lips, Starbucks folks: We don‘t want you anymore. We are not going to fall for your newly discovered attraction for our brick sidewalks, our historical county courthouse, our brightly painted street signs, our newly elected Democratic state legislators, and just roll over and order whatever size Breakfast Blend you tell us to, like we fell for that beautiful blond back in college.
You had your chance. We asked, nearly begged, for you to come here years ago and you ignored us. Coffee love has a small window of opportunity, and for you we have slammed it shut.
Now The Gap, on the other hand ...
Monday, February 26, 2007
Paying a Debt to Pippin
This appeared on Sunday, Feb. 25, 2007
I cannot remember how cold it was, or if there was snow on the ground.
But I do remember the intense scene of a group of men and women standing in a half circle around a gravestone at the Chestnut Grove Annex Cemetery.
The date was Feb. 22, 1988 – 19 years ago last Thursday – and the occasion was a remembrance ceremony for Horace Pippin, the respected and acclaimed artist who was born in West Chester 100 years ago to that date, and who made his home here after the seeing the end of World War I, returning back to the nation that enslaved his grandparents and treated those of his race with distain.
I was not attending as participant in the ceremony, anymore than I would have for any event that I covered for the Daily Local News in my quarter century here. I was there as an observer, with pen and reporter’s notebook in hand. But the moment has stayed with me for all this time.
The event had been organized by the Chester County Historical Society and some of Pippin’s peers as a way to atone for the neglect that had been shown him during this life, and at the time of his death from a heart attack in 1946. A man named John Halstead, president of the historical society at the time, noted how a contemporary of Pippin’s had noticed the lack of representation by the West Chester community at his funeral. Halstead spoke of a redressing of that grievance.
Here’s part of what I wrote:
“To the Rev. Earl D. Trent Jr. of West Chester, the event served as “a tax, a debt of respect and honor to Horace Pippin.
“ ‘The fact that it came on the centennial of his birth is merely coincidence,’ said Trent, pastor of St. Paul’s Baptist Church, where Pippin worshipped and taught choir. ‘The age does not matter. It is due him.’ ”
Pippin was a self-taught artist whose work showed the lives of black men and women in their daily lives in the flat, linear style that became known as primitive. He also painted scenes from the Bible and American history that cast a forceful light on the racial injustice that his country allowed at the time. His paintings toured the country as part of a Museum of Modern Art traveling show. He sold dozens of paintings to collectors and museums across the country.
And he was a good man, working within the black community of West Chester to better young lives.
But the larger community in his home town apparently did not pay him the respect he earned elsewhere. Two days after he died at his home on West Gay Street, the Daily Local News seemed more interested in noting that Charles Lukens Huston, “Steel Pioneer,” had his 90th birthday.
I went looking for his gravesite on Thursday but the frozen snow kept me from finding it, even though in my mind’s eye I could see it clearly. And I remembered, too, what one of Pippin’s contemporaries, Warren H. Burton, told me.
“In his quiet and gentle manner, he was an integral part of this community,” concluded Burton.
Chestnut Grove Annex Cemetery is just north of West Chester on Route 100. Maybe when the snow clears, we might stop by and put down another payment on our debt to him.
I cannot remember how cold it was, or if there was snow on the ground.
But I do remember the intense scene of a group of men and women standing in a half circle around a gravestone at the Chestnut Grove Annex Cemetery.
The date was Feb. 22, 1988 – 19 years ago last Thursday – and the occasion was a remembrance ceremony for Horace Pippin, the respected and acclaimed artist who was born in West Chester 100 years ago to that date, and who made his home here after the seeing the end of World War I, returning back to the nation that enslaved his grandparents and treated those of his race with distain.
I was not attending as participant in the ceremony, anymore than I would have for any event that I covered for the Daily Local News in my quarter century here. I was there as an observer, with pen and reporter’s notebook in hand. But the moment has stayed with me for all this time.
The event had been organized by the Chester County Historical Society and some of Pippin’s peers as a way to atone for the neglect that had been shown him during this life, and at the time of his death from a heart attack in 1946. A man named John Halstead, president of the historical society at the time, noted how a contemporary of Pippin’s had noticed the lack of representation by the West Chester community at his funeral. Halstead spoke of a redressing of that grievance.
Here’s part of what I wrote:
“To the Rev. Earl D. Trent Jr. of West Chester, the event served as “a tax, a debt of respect and honor to Horace Pippin.
“ ‘The fact that it came on the centennial of his birth is merely coincidence,’ said Trent, pastor of St. Paul’s Baptist Church, where Pippin worshipped and taught choir. ‘The age does not matter. It is due him.’ ”
Pippin was a self-taught artist whose work showed the lives of black men and women in their daily lives in the flat, linear style that became known as primitive. He also painted scenes from the Bible and American history that cast a forceful light on the racial injustice that his country allowed at the time. His paintings toured the country as part of a Museum of Modern Art traveling show. He sold dozens of paintings to collectors and museums across the country.
And he was a good man, working within the black community of West Chester to better young lives.
But the larger community in his home town apparently did not pay him the respect he earned elsewhere. Two days after he died at his home on West Gay Street, the Daily Local News seemed more interested in noting that Charles Lukens Huston, “Steel Pioneer,” had his 90th birthday.
I went looking for his gravesite on Thursday but the frozen snow kept me from finding it, even though in my mind’s eye I could see it clearly. And I remembered, too, what one of Pippin’s contemporaries, Warren H. Burton, told me.
“In his quiet and gentle manner, he was an integral part of this community,” concluded Burton.
Chestnut Grove Annex Cemetery is just north of West Chester on Route 100. Maybe when the snow clears, we might stop by and put down another payment on our debt to him.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
A Valentine to West Chester
This appeared Sunday, Feb. 18, 2006
Whatever else its benefits are, the new parking garage in the 200 block of West Market Street has provided a remarkable scenic overlook of downtown West Chester.
Standing on the site of the late, great Short Line Bus Co. terminal, the garage spirals up five levels or so, putting the climber several dozen feet above the rooftops.
If you look east up Market Street, you can see the clock tower of the Chester County Courthouse, the west facade of the elegant Farmers & Mechanics Building, the top of the Green Tree Apartments, and the awning of the former Mr. Sandwich Building at the corner of North Church Street — currently occupied by a certain state senator Andy D. who has a penchant for, well, let‘s just say the spoken word.
From this vantage point, you can‘t see the way the town has changed over the years, and you can imagine it as it was in the early 1900s —quiet and beautiful.
And if you look hard enough, you can see the people that make the borough as colorful and vibrant as a Dennis Haggerty watercolor. In fact, you can even see Haggerty himself, chugging his little red truck (”Honk if you are Elvis“ bumper sticker included) up Hannum Avenue.
Look north and there‘s Mickey Cugino handing out Pennsylvania Lottery tickets for the financial dreamers who stop in his smoke shop all day. Across the street you‘ll spot Amy Beaver, making sure the Deadheads along Gay Street have a place to hook up with a supply of sandlewood.
Pulling into the back of her sports pub is Ruth Gallagher, of the Delaware County Gallaghers, making sure the place is ready for business when Skip and Carlos wander in towards the late afternoon.
You might catch a glimpse of Dawson R. ”Rich“ Muth skipping down the steps of his law office and heading out for lunch, or to check to see whether there‘ve been anymore shenanigans outside Sheriff Bunny‘s office.
Lunch is what‘s being served right now at Tony‘s Market, run by Kenny, and if you hurry downstairs after your panoramic tour you might be able to get the last roast pork sandwich. But if you miss out, you‘ll just have to take out your sorrows by buying the new Lucinda Williams CD at The Mad Platter, where John and Debbie probably have it on hold for you anyway.
Look very hard, squinting into the sun, and you might be able to catch Police Chief Scott Bohn teaching the family dog a new trick — staying awake during Borough Council meetings. Or turn your sights west and watch as Fred Gusz attempts to ride his $400,000 bicycle down Wayne Avenue on his way over to Ray Ott‘s for a spin Down The Shore. Or maybe he‘s just on his way over to Blue Rock Road for breakfast with his grandson Graham.
Gaze a little longer and you‘ll no doubt see one of a hundred or more people that you know and who, if they disappeared from the streetscape of West Chester would still be there in the mists of history, forever leaving the borough vibrant and colorful.
And yet not one of those wonderful people saw fit to send me a Valentine‘s Day card this year.
Like Andy, I‘m just sayin.‘
Whatever else its benefits are, the new parking garage in the 200 block of West Market Street has provided a remarkable scenic overlook of downtown West Chester.
Standing on the site of the late, great Short Line Bus Co. terminal, the garage spirals up five levels or so, putting the climber several dozen feet above the rooftops.
If you look east up Market Street, you can see the clock tower of the Chester County Courthouse, the west facade of the elegant Farmers & Mechanics Building, the top of the Green Tree Apartments, and the awning of the former Mr. Sandwich Building at the corner of North Church Street — currently occupied by a certain state senator Andy D. who has a penchant for, well, let‘s just say the spoken word.
From this vantage point, you can‘t see the way the town has changed over the years, and you can imagine it as it was in the early 1900s —quiet and beautiful.
And if you look hard enough, you can see the people that make the borough as colorful and vibrant as a Dennis Haggerty watercolor. In fact, you can even see Haggerty himself, chugging his little red truck (”Honk if you are Elvis“ bumper sticker included) up Hannum Avenue.
Look north and there‘s Mickey Cugino handing out Pennsylvania Lottery tickets for the financial dreamers who stop in his smoke shop all day. Across the street you‘ll spot Amy Beaver, making sure the Deadheads along Gay Street have a place to hook up with a supply of sandlewood.
Pulling into the back of her sports pub is Ruth Gallagher, of the Delaware County Gallaghers, making sure the place is ready for business when Skip and Carlos wander in towards the late afternoon.
You might catch a glimpse of Dawson R. ”Rich“ Muth skipping down the steps of his law office and heading out for lunch, or to check to see whether there‘ve been anymore shenanigans outside Sheriff Bunny‘s office.
Lunch is what‘s being served right now at Tony‘s Market, run by Kenny, and if you hurry downstairs after your panoramic tour you might be able to get the last roast pork sandwich. But if you miss out, you‘ll just have to take out your sorrows by buying the new Lucinda Williams CD at The Mad Platter, where John and Debbie probably have it on hold for you anyway.
Look very hard, squinting into the sun, and you might be able to catch Police Chief Scott Bohn teaching the family dog a new trick — staying awake during Borough Council meetings. Or turn your sights west and watch as Fred Gusz attempts to ride his $400,000 bicycle down Wayne Avenue on his way over to Ray Ott‘s for a spin Down The Shore. Or maybe he‘s just on his way over to Blue Rock Road for breakfast with his grandson Graham.
Gaze a little longer and you‘ll no doubt see one of a hundred or more people that you know and who, if they disappeared from the streetscape of West Chester would still be there in the mists of history, forever leaving the borough vibrant and colorful.
And yet not one of those wonderful people saw fit to send me a Valentine‘s Day card this year.
Like Andy, I‘m just sayin.‘
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Whose Bricks Are These?
This appeared on Sunday, February 4, 2006
You know me — I love the Chester County Courthouse. Those engraved bricks around the Market Street side? I love them, too. But some of them should offer an explanation for those wanderers who stroll by on a Sunday morning.
"In Memory of Guernsey Cow Exton?"
Remember, the majority of people who live in Chester County don‘t remember anything here before they put up the Beaver Chase Run subdivision in London Grove. They‘re supposed to pay homage to a mid-century dairy bar? I think not.
"The Farnum Twins?" Sounds like an act out of Ringling Bros. "Breakfast Club?" There are two of these, so I suggest they get together and pile on the packcakes as a single unit or be somewhat clearer about whose breakfast and where.
There are two, count ‘em, two "Mike Perrone West Chester Building Depts.," bricks, raising the question of whether Mike is trying to get a message across, or whether some obsequious contractor got carried away.
Everyone likes a mystery myself now and again, but the meaning of "X1E-XIE/Minky/Wly R + S"? Wanna run that one by me again? Should I guess, "secret formula for removing white residue stains from real brick sidewalks?"
Nearby is "Khaki Was Here" and "Imagine." Okay, one‘s the name of a John Lennon song, the other‘s a great name for a post-punk, hip hop, skater band. But what about "Jasmine & The B Boys." Maybe a hip hop, skater, post-punk band?
If you were an alien and dropped down on West Market and took a look at the bricks, you‘d wonder about the proliferation of Swopes and Taylors. "In Honor of Charles E. Swope." "In Honor of Rep. Elinor Taylor." "In Honor of Stephanie Swope." "In Memory of Edna M. Swope." " Elinor Taylor WC Council 1974." "In Honor of Charles E. Swope Jr." "In Memory of Charles E. Swope." "The Swope Foundation." You‘d think they ran the town, for the love of Pete. Oh, wait a minute …
There‘s a certain amount of advertising going on here, which might strike some as unseemly. You can forgive the "Giuntas Thriftway Since 1927," but one might wonder whether the "Jane Chalfont" of one brick is the same as the same "Jane Chalfont Inc." of another. Is "Riggtown" a neighborhood, or a truckers‘ depot on the Pennsylvania Turnpike?
There is a symmetry to it all, though, with "Hillsdale Class of 2003" lined up not too terribly far away from "Class of 62 WCHS." The "in honor ofs" match up nicely with the the "in memory ofs," putting the living in the vicinity of the dead, and it‘s nice to see both "Fred Gusz" and "Fred Gusz Jr." occupying the same territory after all these years.
It is a fun little tour to make, and if you want to know about "In Memory of Betty Rellahan," I‘d be glad to tell you. I can talk about her all day.
You know me — I love the Chester County Courthouse. Those engraved bricks around the Market Street side? I love them, too. But some of them should offer an explanation for those wanderers who stroll by on a Sunday morning.
"In Memory of Guernsey Cow Exton?"
Remember, the majority of people who live in Chester County don‘t remember anything here before they put up the Beaver Chase Run subdivision in London Grove. They‘re supposed to pay homage to a mid-century dairy bar? I think not.
"The Farnum Twins?" Sounds like an act out of Ringling Bros. "Breakfast Club?" There are two of these, so I suggest they get together and pile on the packcakes as a single unit or be somewhat clearer about whose breakfast and where.
There are two, count ‘em, two "Mike Perrone West Chester Building Depts.," bricks, raising the question of whether Mike is trying to get a message across, or whether some obsequious contractor got carried away.
Everyone likes a mystery myself now and again, but the meaning of "X1E-XIE/Minky/Wly R + S"? Wanna run that one by me again? Should I guess, "secret formula for removing white residue stains from real brick sidewalks?"
Nearby is "Khaki Was Here" and "Imagine." Okay, one‘s the name of a John Lennon song, the other‘s a great name for a post-punk, hip hop, skater band. But what about "Jasmine & The B Boys." Maybe a hip hop, skater, post-punk band?
If you were an alien and dropped down on West Market and took a look at the bricks, you‘d wonder about the proliferation of Swopes and Taylors. "In Honor of Charles E. Swope." "In Honor of Rep. Elinor Taylor." "In Honor of Stephanie Swope." "In Memory of Edna M. Swope." " Elinor Taylor WC Council 1974." "In Honor of Charles E. Swope Jr." "In Memory of Charles E. Swope." "The Swope Foundation." You‘d think they ran the town, for the love of Pete. Oh, wait a minute …
There‘s a certain amount of advertising going on here, which might strike some as unseemly. You can forgive the "Giuntas Thriftway Since 1927," but one might wonder whether the "Jane Chalfont" of one brick is the same as the same "Jane Chalfont Inc." of another. Is "Riggtown" a neighborhood, or a truckers‘ depot on the Pennsylvania Turnpike?
There is a symmetry to it all, though, with "Hillsdale Class of 2003" lined up not too terribly far away from "Class of 62 WCHS." The "in honor ofs" match up nicely with the the "in memory ofs," putting the living in the vicinity of the dead, and it‘s nice to see both "Fred Gusz" and "Fred Gusz Jr." occupying the same territory after all these years.
It is a fun little tour to make, and if you want to know about "In Memory of Betty Rellahan," I‘d be glad to tell you. I can talk about her all day.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Up My Alley
This appeared on Sunday, Jan. 21, 2006
The alleys of West Chester are being disrespected.
It’s not that they’re not clean, or that they’re allowed to crumble, or that no one uses them.
Quite the contrary. As more and more homeowners look at the carriage houses and two-story garages with their alley access as secondary living units, the liveliness and livability of the alleys in the borough has, to my mind, never been more apparent.
I’ve written about these marvels of small town life before, and my mind is unchanged. Having alleys running through your town is a benefit not to be taken lightly.
Walking them, you gain insight into the character of the people who live in your town (seeing children’s toys lining the backyard of one of your neighbors gives you an idea that good things are going on nearby, and chatting with an acquaintance who’s firing up the Webber off the back porch is a great alternative in a town that hasn’t entirely grasped the notion of stoop sitting.)
Alleys have a historical place in the Philadelphia region and, by extension, the nation, as the cobblestones of Elfreth’s Alley in the city will attest.
And frankly, alleys make a great short cut if you’re 15 years old and late for dinner. Or if you’re 49 years old and finding yourself blocked from your normal route to the office by street repairs.
But disrespected they are, nevertheless.
How so, you ask? Signage, is my reply.
Take a drive around the borough sometime and see whether you can identify the myriad alleys that intersect and bisect the main streets running north and south, east and west. Nope. No can do. There are no street signs telling you what byway you’re traveling on.
It’s a shame, since most of the alleys have wonderful names that should be boasted about, shown to all who travel here. Holly Alley, Juniper Alley, Mulberry Alley, Ebbs and Current alleys, Weaver and Corcoran alleys, Potter and Birds Eye and School and Britnton and Helen – all lilting names that deserve to be noticed.
It’s not just a matter, however, of a regard for semantics. As more and more people come to live on alleys in the borough it becomes a matter of practicality as well. Right around the corner from where I live if a very beautiful, very red brick, very expensive set of town homes set on an alley.
The residents there all keep their homes neat and tidy, recycle their plastic and glass, pay their taxes on time (I assume), and in return couldn’t find a street sign identifying their street as Clinton Alley to save a former president’s neck.
The surprising thing is that the borough generally has as much reluctance to put up signs as a West Chester University freshman has in tapping a keg. In West Chester, there are signs giving directions to everything, including other signs, so you’d think there could be a few dollars in the budget for our alleys.
So at the next Borough Council meeting, I’m hoping that a few of your readers will demand that the council form a “Friends of the Alleys” group that can raise money to start signing the backyard byways. First on the list? Rambo Alley, between Nields and Sharpless.
The alleys of West Chester are being disrespected.
It’s not that they’re not clean, or that they’re allowed to crumble, or that no one uses them.
Quite the contrary. As more and more homeowners look at the carriage houses and two-story garages with their alley access as secondary living units, the liveliness and livability of the alleys in the borough has, to my mind, never been more apparent.
I’ve written about these marvels of small town life before, and my mind is unchanged. Having alleys running through your town is a benefit not to be taken lightly.
Walking them, you gain insight into the character of the people who live in your town (seeing children’s toys lining the backyard of one of your neighbors gives you an idea that good things are going on nearby, and chatting with an acquaintance who’s firing up the Webber off the back porch is a great alternative in a town that hasn’t entirely grasped the notion of stoop sitting.)
Alleys have a historical place in the Philadelphia region and, by extension, the nation, as the cobblestones of Elfreth’s Alley in the city will attest.
And frankly, alleys make a great short cut if you’re 15 years old and late for dinner. Or if you’re 49 years old and finding yourself blocked from your normal route to the office by street repairs.
But disrespected they are, nevertheless.
How so, you ask? Signage, is my reply.
Take a drive around the borough sometime and see whether you can identify the myriad alleys that intersect and bisect the main streets running north and south, east and west. Nope. No can do. There are no street signs telling you what byway you’re traveling on.
It’s a shame, since most of the alleys have wonderful names that should be boasted about, shown to all who travel here. Holly Alley, Juniper Alley, Mulberry Alley, Ebbs and Current alleys, Weaver and Corcoran alleys, Potter and Birds Eye and School and Britnton and Helen – all lilting names that deserve to be noticed.
It’s not just a matter, however, of a regard for semantics. As more and more people come to live on alleys in the borough it becomes a matter of practicality as well. Right around the corner from where I live if a very beautiful, very red brick, very expensive set of town homes set on an alley.
The residents there all keep their homes neat and tidy, recycle their plastic and glass, pay their taxes on time (I assume), and in return couldn’t find a street sign identifying their street as Clinton Alley to save a former president’s neck.
The surprising thing is that the borough generally has as much reluctance to put up signs as a West Chester University freshman has in tapping a keg. In West Chester, there are signs giving directions to everything, including other signs, so you’d think there could be a few dollars in the budget for our alleys.
So at the next Borough Council meeting, I’m hoping that a few of your readers will demand that the council form a “Friends of the Alleys” group that can raise money to start signing the backyard byways. First on the list? Rambo Alley, between Nields and Sharpless.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
May-December Romance
This appeared Sunday, Nov. 19, 2006
The dark days are upon us.
No, I‘m not talking about the coming reign of Nancy Pelosi, or the possibility that the state House of Representatives will remain in GOP hands. I‘m talking about something with direct, immediate and dire implications for West Chestrians everywhere.
The West Chester Growers Market is set to close down for the season next month.
Ever heard the expression, ”a May-December romance“? This is one of those.
Every May, the growers market opens at the corner of North Church and West Chestnut streets and We Who Know Its Pleasures flock there to get our weekly ration of organic greens, perfect tomatoes, sugary baked goods, free range chicken breasts and ever so ripe peaches, among other etceteras.
And by ”we“ I mean everybody from mothers and daughters to fathers and sons, dogs and their owners, owners and their dogs, off-duty criminal defense attorneys, off-duty police officers, on-duty folk musicians, retired gentlemen, retiring ladies, and every now and then a Goth or two from the local coffeehouse. It can get downright crowded -- and I‘m talking Restaurant Festival crowded -- in the early hours of the day when everybody is angling for the best looking squash and the freshest loaf of French bread.
Then, every December, as the wind blows the last leaf from the last branch and the sun struggles to keep the temperature above 40, they shut the place down. You‘ve seen it coming but it still breaks your heart, like the cruelest end to the grandest love affair you can imagine.
Winter in West Chester is dark, but it is made even darker when you wake on Saturday morning and realize you‘re going to have to get your mixed greens from the supermarket veggie case instead of the friendly guy with the Amish straw hat.
No more chow chow and canned peaches from Lizzie‘s Bakery. No more whoopee pies, either. Gone is the chance of scoring a wedge of garlic and chive cheese from the guys at Oak Shade Cheeses. Not a bloody chance of resupplying the Lemon Calendula soap bars from Ellen April soaps.
It strikes me as criminal that the good things in life in West Chester have to go into hibernation just because the calendar page turns. In my home town, Cincinnati, there‘s a farmers‘ market that is open year-round because the city decided to build it an enclosed space.
So I was thinking that perhaps it‘s time for the powers that be in West Chester to start pressuring those developers who want to build 40-story hotels on Chestnut Street to include prime space for the market in the building so the growers could operate from New Years to Christmas.
That‘s right. I say perhaps it‘s time for everyone to demand a growers market provision in the redevelopment authority‘s bylaws. I say we speak out with petitions and letters and late-night prank telephone calls and e-mail Internet blogging campaigns.
Right? I ask Keith Fahnestock, owner of Fahnestock Fruits, the market‘s gateway table stand.
”Well, you get kinda glad when it‘s done,“ Keith replied, somewhat sheepishly, about the approaching closing date. ”It‘s nice to take a break.“
Oh. Well. Maybe you‘re right.
Anyway, see you in the springtime.
The dark days are upon us.
No, I‘m not talking about the coming reign of Nancy Pelosi, or the possibility that the state House of Representatives will remain in GOP hands. I‘m talking about something with direct, immediate and dire implications for West Chestrians everywhere.
The West Chester Growers Market is set to close down for the season next month.
Ever heard the expression, ”a May-December romance“? This is one of those.
Every May, the growers market opens at the corner of North Church and West Chestnut streets and We Who Know Its Pleasures flock there to get our weekly ration of organic greens, perfect tomatoes, sugary baked goods, free range chicken breasts and ever so ripe peaches, among other etceteras.
And by ”we“ I mean everybody from mothers and daughters to fathers and sons, dogs and their owners, owners and their dogs, off-duty criminal defense attorneys, off-duty police officers, on-duty folk musicians, retired gentlemen, retiring ladies, and every now and then a Goth or two from the local coffeehouse. It can get downright crowded -- and I‘m talking Restaurant Festival crowded -- in the early hours of the day when everybody is angling for the best looking squash and the freshest loaf of French bread.
Then, every December, as the wind blows the last leaf from the last branch and the sun struggles to keep the temperature above 40, they shut the place down. You‘ve seen it coming but it still breaks your heart, like the cruelest end to the grandest love affair you can imagine.
Winter in West Chester is dark, but it is made even darker when you wake on Saturday morning and realize you‘re going to have to get your mixed greens from the supermarket veggie case instead of the friendly guy with the Amish straw hat.
No more chow chow and canned peaches from Lizzie‘s Bakery. No more whoopee pies, either. Gone is the chance of scoring a wedge of garlic and chive cheese from the guys at Oak Shade Cheeses. Not a bloody chance of resupplying the Lemon Calendula soap bars from Ellen April soaps.
It strikes me as criminal that the good things in life in West Chester have to go into hibernation just because the calendar page turns. In my home town, Cincinnati, there‘s a farmers‘ market that is open year-round because the city decided to build it an enclosed space.
So I was thinking that perhaps it‘s time for the powers that be in West Chester to start pressuring those developers who want to build 40-story hotels on Chestnut Street to include prime space for the market in the building so the growers could operate from New Years to Christmas.
That‘s right. I say perhaps it‘s time for everyone to demand a growers market provision in the redevelopment authority‘s bylaws. I say we speak out with petitions and letters and late-night prank telephone calls and e-mail Internet blogging campaigns.
Right? I ask Keith Fahnestock, owner of Fahnestock Fruits, the market‘s gateway table stand.
”Well, you get kinda glad when it‘s done,“ Keith replied, somewhat sheepishly, about the approaching closing date. ”It‘s nice to take a break.“
Oh. Well. Maybe you‘re right.
Anyway, see you in the springtime.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
No 'Bucks in the Boro
This appeared on Sunday, Nov. 5, 2006
At the Canine Care Center in Frazer, they advertise their services right on the front windows. To wit: They provide dog grooming, doggie day care and wonderful, exotic dog food, all at reasonable prices.
And in addition, they proudly proclaim that they have coffee, and it‘s really, really good.
Leave aside the question of whether the coffee is for the dog owners or the dogs. What I want to point out is that the availability of coffee has gotten out of control.You can get a cup of coffee anywhere.
You can get one in the supermarket. You can get one at the gas station. You can get one at the optometrist‘s. And, from what I now learn, you can get it while your Pomeranian is being clipped.
I suppose that this is representative of the fascination America has developed with coffee. My father used to get up in the middle of the night to fix himself a big hot cup of coffee -- caffeinated, mind you. I found that strange, but in 2006, I can only assume that the general populace would not blink an eye.
My boss, after all, doesn‘t leave the cozy confines of his office here in LocalLand without his stainless steel coffee container. Lord knows, he might get trapped between the news desk and the sports desk and need a shot of joe.
I say this to get to the big news: Last month, Starbucks announced they had set a goal of having 40,000 stores worldwide -- 27,500 more than now. They apparently need more stores because the coffee drinkers of the world can‘t be bothered with searching more than five square feet for their next cup.
The story that I read about this noted that in Seattle there is an office building that has a Starbucks on the first floor, a Starbucks on the 40th floor, and a Starbucks across the street. In Vancouver, Canada, there are Starbucks on opposite sides of the street at one intersection.
As Launi Skinner, senior vice president of Starbucks‘ store development, put it: ”Going to the other side of the street can be a barrier."
So Starbucks is going to have a barrista in 40,000 locations across the globe, with the exception, of course, of one place. West Chester.
That‘s right. It‘s almost 2007, and still no mocha lattes from the ’Bucks in W.C.
P.S. to Launi Skinner: Come on, lady! You can‘t find a slot in your quest for world domination to put in a store somewhere in the four corners of the best borough on the planet? The fact that there are Starbucks outlets surrounding the town doesn‘t cut it.
If you can‘t expect Vancouverans to cross the street to grab a grande, how can you expect us to hop in the Subuaru and high-tail it on over to West Goshen? And don‘t tell me about Route 202 in Birmingham. In Seattle, they only have to ride the elevator 20 floors for Ethiopean Kampuchea Roast. There are stinkin‘ traffic jams on 202!
Actually, I shouldn‘t worry about this; I‘m mostly concerned for my friends and neighbors and bosses. See, I don‘t drink coffee. I drink Irish tea.
I get it at the mall.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Sugerman update
This appeared on Oct. 22, 2006
Two months ago, I reminded you faithful readers that the county‘s construction of new court space on West Market Street in West Chester is proceeding apace without the benefit of a suitable name for the finished product.
When one studies the signs in front of the building, all we are told is that the edifice will be known as the Chester County Justice Center.
At that time, I also asked for your forgiveness for stating that I have only contempt for that wretched, generically bureaucratic name. It is my considered opinion that one of the foremost problems in America today is the unwillingness of our municipal governments to name any new building after anybody or anything -- witness the blandness of Downingtown West High School and West Goshen Community Park. (Thank goodness for the brave folks on the West Chester Area School Board for going out on that Bayard Rustin limb. Go Golden Knights!)
I firmly believe that the general lack of creativity or historical acknowledgement in the act of building-naming is another example of the failure of the country‘s educational system, but that is a column for another day.
At the time, I had been remembering the late Judge Leonard Sugerman, and proposed that in his honor, the county undertake to christen the new building when it opens after him.
My proposal was greeted with a brief flurry of positive reaction one Constant Reader generously offered to help me in my campaign; I received a nice note about the idea from Sugerman‘s widow Carol; and a former clerk to the judge who was passing through town and saw the column kindly said, ”I think what you have proposed is brilliant.“
Then, nothing.
My idea took off with as much momentum as the 1973 Volkswagen I used to drive had going up Blackhorse Hill in West Vincent. But the thought of the ”Justice Center“ stuck in my craw, so last week I made some gentle inquiries with the folks I hoped would be most inclined to join me in my quest: his former colleagues on the bench.
Their reaction? As one might expect: reasoned, articulate, and ”Here‘s your hat, Mr. Rellahan, what‘s your hurry?“
President Judge Paula Francisco Ott, Sugerman‘s successor in Courtroom One, put it bluntly: You can‘t name the new courthouse after any judge from Chester County , because it would be too hard to choose. After all, how do you pick the tallest redwood in the forest?
But leave it to current judge and ex-DA James P. MacElree II to slap me across the face for proposing the idea. Figuratively speaking, of course.
To put it mildly, he said, Sugerman would have been ”uncomfortable“ with the very notion of the new courthouse, moved as it is from the historic location of the county‘s current center of justice. He was a creature of Thomas U. Walter‘s courthouse, a lover of its beauty and majesty, and would have had to be dragged kicking and screaming to the new building, had he lived long enough to occupy one of its courtrooms.
He would have looked at anyone who suggested putting his name on that building and with a withering glance, said simply: ”How utterly ridiculous. Next case.“
Two months ago, I reminded you faithful readers that the county‘s construction of new court space on West Market Street in West Chester is proceeding apace without the benefit of a suitable name for the finished product.
When one studies the signs in front of the building, all we are told is that the edifice will be known as the Chester County Justice Center.
At that time, I also asked for your forgiveness for stating that I have only contempt for that wretched, generically bureaucratic name. It is my considered opinion that one of the foremost problems in America today is the unwillingness of our municipal governments to name any new building after anybody or anything -- witness the blandness of Downingtown West High School and West Goshen Community Park. (Thank goodness for the brave folks on the West Chester Area School Board for going out on that Bayard Rustin limb. Go Golden Knights!)
I firmly believe that the general lack of creativity or historical acknowledgement in the act of building-naming is another example of the failure of the country‘s educational system, but that is a column for another day.
At the time, I had been remembering the late Judge Leonard Sugerman, and proposed that in his honor, the county undertake to christen the new building when it opens after him.
My proposal was greeted with a brief flurry of positive reaction one Constant Reader generously offered to help me in my campaign; I received a nice note about the idea from Sugerman‘s widow Carol; and a former clerk to the judge who was passing through town and saw the column kindly said, ”I think what you have proposed is brilliant.“
Then, nothing.
My idea took off with as much momentum as the 1973 Volkswagen I used to drive had going up Blackhorse Hill in West Vincent. But the thought of the ”Justice Center“ stuck in my craw, so last week I made some gentle inquiries with the folks I hoped would be most inclined to join me in my quest: his former colleagues on the bench.
Their reaction? As one might expect: reasoned, articulate, and ”Here‘s your hat, Mr. Rellahan, what‘s your hurry?“
President Judge Paula Francisco Ott, Sugerman‘s successor in Courtroom One, put it bluntly: You can‘t name the new courthouse after any judge from Chester County , because it would be too hard to choose. After all, how do you pick the tallest redwood in the forest?
But leave it to current judge and ex-DA James P. MacElree II to slap me across the face for proposing the idea. Figuratively speaking, of course.
To put it mildly, he said, Sugerman would have been ”uncomfortable“ with the very notion of the new courthouse, moved as it is from the historic location of the county‘s current center of justice. He was a creature of Thomas U. Walter‘s courthouse, a lover of its beauty and majesty, and would have had to be dragged kicking and screaming to the new building, had he lived long enough to occupy one of its courtrooms.
He would have looked at anyone who suggested putting his name on that building and with a withering glance, said simply: ”How utterly ridiculous. Next case.“
Thursday, October 05, 2006
A Bank Shot
This appeared Oct. 1, 2006
The construction hole had been growing on the south side of the 400 block of East Market Street for weeks, and I had wondered what sort of business would be locating there. Art gallery? eBay outlet? Brian McFadden's mythical Fine Dining Restaurant?
Nope. According to the sign that went up the other day, we're getting another bank. Of course we are! Because if you live in Chester County in the early days of the 21st century, the two things you apparently cannot have enough of are ugly overpriced new homes and banks.
And if you live in West Chester you're spared the one, but inundated with the other.
You cannot spit in the business sector of West Chester without hitting the front door of a new bank. Anytime someone puts up a new building in the borough, the first thing you absolutely know is going to be located there is something requiring a vault and safe deposit boxes.
You can believe me or not.
It makes you recall the joke about the ubiquity of the Starbucks chain (an everywhere-ness that as of 1 p.m. Saturday, Sept. 30, 2006, still had not extended itself to the borough, I might add). Only instead of a new coffeehouse, in West Chester, we kid that they're opening a new bank in the men's room of an old bank.
Not that we even talk about it that much. It's a fact of life that you just accept without really thinking about it, like seeing discarded beer bottles in the parking lot of Lincoln Financial Field on Eagles game day.
But I know people who come in to work in West Chester every day who look at these financial institutions and just want to punch somebody wearing a three-piece suit. There's a secretary at the Chester County Courthouse who swears she can open a free checking account every 200 yards while taking a noon stroll on her lunch hour, but has to drive 10 miles to get a new pair of hose if she gets a run in her stocking.
It doesn't seem fair. I can list five things the borough needs more than another bank:
A tropical fish store.
A bike repair shop.
A camping equipment outlet.
A (bigger) used book store.
A Cincinnati-style chili parlor, preferably Skyline, that would be open 24/7/365 and would deliver free of charge to customers who can prove they were born in Ohio.
What do we need these banks for anyway? Technically speaking, I haven't seen the inside of a bank since the early days of the Clinton administration. I have direct deposit, I make withdrawals at the ATM, I pay my bills online, and I do my miscellaneous banking chores on my bank's Web site.
Does anyone actually go inside a bank anymore? For all I know, the banks that have been opening in West Chester might not even be banks. They could be insurance companies, or clandestine massage parlors.
It used to be that if you lived in West Chester you had the prefect ratio of banks to Chinese restaurants, which if I remember my notes from college is 4:1. Now we've gone way out of balance with banks and haven't made the necessary moral and financial commitment to keep up the pace with the Chinese restaurants. I say if the Borough Council is going start tackling quality of life issues, that's one they should start with - not this height issue thing.
I have spent countless hours of my personal time trying to come up with a town motto that would serve West Chester now that the original one - "West Chester: The Athens of Pennsylvania" has been discarded I've described them here: "Come Grab Our Trash;" "More Bars Than Barbers" and "Don't Worry, Coatesville is 10 Miles to the West." None have seemed to resonate with the public, or gotten me noticed by the folks on Madison Avenue. Until now.
How about it? "West Chester: A Town Willie Sutton Would Love."
Friday, September 29, 2006
The Sweet Smell of Excess
This appeared on Sept. 17, 2006
Ah, the coming of fall in West Chester! A hint of crispness in the air, wind-blown leaves appearing on the cool brick sidewalks, college students rushing to and from their drunken par ..., er, classes -- all are sure signs that the autumnal equinox can't be too far away.
Not to mention, of course, the biggest local signal that fall is just around the corner - the annual Chester County Restaurant Festival in West Chester. With its 60 different restaurants - serving everything from hot dogs to crab cakes, as the brochure says - its more than 100 craft and organization booths, live bands and a popular beer and wine court, it always brings thousands of enthusiastic Chester Countians to the shining jewel called Gay Street on a (hopefully) warm and sunny Sunday afternoon.
And to each and every one of you 10- to 15-thousand visitors, we longtime borough residents have but one thing to say:
Call us when you've gone home!
Not to put too fine a point on it, but today's restaurant festival is about as popular to us in the borough as Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are at the Aniston family Thanksgiving dinner table.
Take, for instance, my friend Ruth Wright Hurford, birthright West Chestrian and ex-catcher with the Daily Local News Headliners Co-ed Softball Team, circa 1985. Since she's spent nearly every minute of her waking life in the borough, you figure Ruth is the sort of person who would know how the natives act. Think of her as sort of the Baedecker Guide to West Chester.
I checked with Ruth last week and found out that, true to form, she won't be dining today on the Gay Street pavement. She'll be around the corner at a friend's house engaging in the last great barbecue of the season. She gets the ambiance of the day, the flavorful aromas of the festival grills, yet none of the waiting and slow shuffling from block to block.
Make no mistake about it, it's the very fact that the festival is so popular that makes it so disliked by borough residents. The lines! The crowds! All we want is a crab cake and a hot dog and to go home and watch the second half of the Eagles loss/game. Instead, we're pushed up against some dog-leash-holding stockbroker from Developmentland who can't decide on whether to get the crab cake sandwich or the crab cake ice cream cone, while his blond second trophy wife pesters him about the fresh fruit crab cake cup. Or whatever.
I don't know about you, but if there is a line of more than five people at the gates of heaven, I'm going to straight to hell.
I've written and edited stories about the festival since I arrived here in the early 1980s and used to look forward to the event. In one of its first incarnations, the restaurant festival was when about 15 restaurateurs would push a few tables onto closed-off Gay Street, fire up the Webers, Donohue's would empty the tavern of tables and chairs, and the ale would flow evenly with the tartar sauce on the crab cakes.
It was a simpler, more sanguine time, when you could stand on the corner of High and Gay Streets with a cup of cold beer in your hand, chatting amiably with the mayor and the police chief. If you stand on that corner with a cup of cold beer in your hand, chatting amiably with the mayor and the police chief these days, you might get 11 1/2 to 23 months of probation and a lecture from Judge Gavin.
But don't let our ambivalence to the festival deter you from having fun. We'll survive.
By 10 o'clock tonight, Gay Street will be free of litter and empty of restaurant booths and by early Monday we will be able to take our morning constitutional from Matlack to New Street without being squeezed like a Philadelphia building contractor.
You'll be gone, and we'll be here. Enjoying our crab cakes.
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