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Archive for “Social Graces” news
Being in a hospital makes me cranky. So when I saw the Jefferson University Hospital nurse headed my way Wednesday, her hands full with the “moccachino barium” solution I was going to have to drink for a CAT scan, I couldn’t help but curse to myself.“Man,” I whined, “I hate this shit.”The nurse’s face didn’t change, but something altered in her countenance. She stopped what she was doing, stood up straight, stared somewhat to the left of my actual eyes, but leveled with me in a completely unexpected way:“Sir,” she said: “I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t curse in
They teach 'em manners—even if belated ones—in West Philadelphia. Hollywood A-Lister (and Sixers co-owner) Will Smith finally got around to answering fan mail from Monte Jones, who was 9 years old when he wrote to Smith two years ago. Smith reportedly apologized for the late reply, and encouraged the now-11-year-old Jones "to keep chasing those dreams." Also in the letter? A bookmark with Smith's face. Better late than never, right? [NWI.com]
Our fair city is near the bottom of a list yet again. This time Travel & Leisure ranked Philadelphia 33rd out of 35 cities on its "Most and Least Attractive People" list. And apparently we're getting uglier -- last year we were 25th. Only Baltimore and Anchorage were behind us. [CBS Philly]
We've all know couples who refused to abide by Facebook's rules and chose to share a single account right? And in the cases where we weren't already pretty sure that one half of the couple had been caught maybe getting to re-know old high school girlfriends just a bit too well, didn't we all kind of think it was icky? Well, prepare for a lot more icky. Facebook has introduced "couples pages" to let people in relationship share an identity online. The reaction has been unkind, especially since the new tool actually goes ahead and automatically combines the information of
So, a few weeks back, I was visiting with a pretty good friend who asked how things were going with my new twins, Eli and Jack.“They’re doing all right,” I said. “And we’re hanging in there. But we need more sleep.”“Oh,” she said, casually waving her hand at me. “You’ll never sleep again.”
Like most of the rest of the East Coast, I spent the weekend trying to fit my lawn furniture into my garage. Oh, sure, I also stocked up on bottled water and batteries for the flashlights—and then for flashlights, once I’d inserted said batteries and discovered that wasn’t the problem—and picked 12 pounds of green tomatoes that I’d really been hoping would ripen, and moved approximately 12,000 potted plants off my porch and patio and into the house. But the lawn furniture was the big thing, especially if you count the grill, which I do because when my son went to move it the wheels caught in the grass and it cartwheeled over in a truly spectacular Grand Guignol of flying spatulas and brushes and knives and BBQ forks and cold hard grease. Jake, as always, kept a level head in a crisis, by which I mean he said some words he didn’t learn from me and yanked the entire apparatus into three separate parts (which sent various nuts and bolts flying) and carted those into the garage. I have serious doubts we’ll ever manage to get the grill back together again, but at least my namesake storm won’t turn it into a “flying projectile,” as they keep warning on KYW.
I don’t look good in pink. Never have. I do own a lovely Brooks Brothers pink oxford, and when I am feeling daring, which is not too often, I will wear it with an equally pink sweater vest and khakis and pretend I am a wealthy dilettante in West Palm Beach instead of a generally grumpy magazine editor in Philadelphia. But unless you are African-American or Carson Kressley, pink is a tough color for a guy to pull off.
Several years ago, one of the best-loved theme parks in the world shut down a classic ride so it could make some adjustments: People had become so obese that the ride's boats were scraping the bottom.
I am in the process of selling my house in New Jersey, which is a whole other story than the one I am about to tell you. Suffice to say that I am not meant to own real estate. So if you ever walk into an open house and spot me asking how old the roof is, do me a favor and punch me in the face.
I wish I could say I was shocked by the news that a Princeton University student was arrested last Friday for taking sexually explicit photos of a fellow—sleeping—student. I was appalled, sure; but shocked? Sadly, no.