Shallow | Center

Say It ... Say It!

Seriously, Is It So Hard to Spit Out Three Freakin' Words in Exchange for Free Candy?

THERE ARE certain moments in your life when you realize that the irreverence and carefree nature of youth are gone forever. For me, Halloween is one of those moments. Now that I'm a homeowner in a neighborhood with a lot of kids, I target October 31 as annual proof of societal breakdown. Festooned in their costumes, they knock on the door, you open up, and they ... just stand there, bags opened and held out at the ready. It's a simple transaction -- or it should be. They say three words, one syllable each, and you give them free candy. Yet too damn many of them stand mutely and expectantly, waiting impatiently for you to drop their loot into the bag. You have to beg them to say the words. And afterward, you know they're walking away, muttering to each other, "Man, what's with the old dude?"

Maybe I'll dress up as youthful irreverence today. Surely no one would recognize me. Happy Halloween, all.

So They Say | Special Daily Edition

Also, This Just In: Physicians Don't See a Lot of Healthy Patients

From today's front-pager in the Inquirer about the declining number of marriages reaching 25 years:

"Twenty-five years is a good marriage now," said Lynne Z. Gold-Bikin, a prominent Philadelphia divorce lawyer for more than three decades. "In all honesty, I don't see a lot of good marriages."

I'm sure the fact that Ms. Gold-Bikin is a divorce lawyer has nothing to do with her failure to encounter many happy marriages.

A Bone to Pick

LET ME preface this by saying: I'm not anti-Buffalo wing. I'm not anti-beer. I'm not anti-scantily clad women engaging in nontraditional activities with one another. As a matter of fact, I'm pro-all of those. Very pro.

But, sweet fancy Moses, do I hate Wing Bowl.

There is nothing -- absolutely nothing -- redeeming about it. Today is truly a dreadful day to be a Philadelphian, for all that is shameful about our great region is about to be paraded in front of the world. Mindless overconsumption? Check. Public vomiting? Check. Rampant classlessness? Check. Twenty thousand drunkards cheering it all on? Check (times 20,000). A parochial self-satisfaction that confirms every New Yorker's, Bostonian's, Chicagoan's, Washingtonian's, and Los Angeleno's sordid perception of Joe Philly? Check.

Thank-You Note

BEFORE I succumb to the commercial orgy of the holidays, I wanted to take a minute to reflect on yesterday's theme of giving thanks. Rather than offer the usual litany of family and friends and such for which to be thankful -- and I am thankful for those things -- I can't help but think of the film version of Tom Wolfe's The Right Stuff. The Mercury astronauts are meeting the media, and answering the reporters' inane questions with the typical pablum of public figures, when the earnest John Glenn is asked to comment. I don't recall the specific question, but Glenn, played to perfection by Ed Harris, eschews the cynical confidence of his colleagues and instead answers with genuine enthusiasm. "I just thank God I live in a country where the best and the finest in a man can be brought out," he says, and as the crowd starts to react with applause, he adds, "I really do." It's not a bad thing to be grateful for.

That's One Tall Step for Man, One Venti Leap for Mankind

Fighting the Power, One Cup at a Time

SO I'M AT Starbucks late this afternoon, having decided to kick back for a few minutes with a decaf, and I do what I always do: eschew the chain's absurd, faux-European size designations and ask for a "medium." Not once has the chick behind the counter -- sorry, the "barista" -- ever held out and waited for me to say "grande" instead. I always get my medium, as I did today, and I always get the (very) small satisfaction of thwarting corporate America's furious attempts at mind control. Power to the people, man. Or, as my brother would say, get a haircut, hippie.

(I know, I know -- you waited almost five days for a post, and you get this? Hey, it's spring training -- if the guys in the Show can take it easy until the real games start, then so can I.)

Shut Your Pie Hole

Wings, Hot Dogs, Grilled Cheeses ... How About Just a Salad?

THOSE WHO decry the coarsening of American society too often get caught up in remembering good ol' days that were anything but good. That said, I simply cannot wrap my head around the increasingly mainstream phenomenon of competitive eating. Locally, Wing Bowl packed 'em in at the Wachovia Center, and I'm not just talking about eaters and spectators. The network affiliates had cameras there, and the lead story on Philly.com this morning was about the nauseafest. (It included photos, natch.) Nationally, hot-dog-eating contests are reported on all the time, and yesterday some chick inhaled 26 grilled-cheese sandwiches to win some sort of title.

Stern of the Crew

Howard Tunes Out, Takes Off

TODAY IS THE FIRST DAY of the rest of Howard Stern's life. Howard, as you may have heard, broadcast his final show on so-called terrestrial radio Friday; in January he'll begin a five-year, half-billion-dollar contract with the satellite radio service Sirius. Because this was such a watershed cultural moment, he spent the last couple of weeks running off at the mouth to anyone holding a microphone or tape recorder; I especially enjoyed the insightful interview with Knitting World. Regardless, Stern has rather enjoyed spending the last couple of decades as a martyr, I suspect, and he's often been his own worst enemy, baiting the cultural conservatives and the FCC and then objecting incredulously when the bait was taken.

Custom-Made

In the Season of Traditions, How Does a Family Make Its Own?

WE'VE BEEN TALKING a lot about traditions at Shallow Center Central of late. Even the most frenetic, seat-of-the-pants household likes to do things a certain way, following its own traditions, at Christmastime, and we're no exception. The wrinkle this year is that the 4-year-old, after a year or two of mostly wondering what all the fuss is about, has truly come into her own in terms of holiday immersion. She's all about speculating on gifts from Santa, bugging her mom and dad to tend to the Advent calendar each day, watching A Charlie Brown Christmas every night, and the like. And that has Mrs. SC and I trying to figure out how to establish our own family traditions so that she grows up, as we did, with fond memories of the season and an understanding that her home is a place where special, unique things happen in late December.

Lord Have Merci

Some Serene Thoughts to Digest in Case the L-Tryptophan Doesn't Put You to Sleep Quickly Enough Later Today

IT'S CUSTOMARY TODAY to reflect on your good fortunes and express gratitude that, I dunno, you don't live in a ditch or something. I did that a couple of years ago and got accused by my commenters -- okay, by my family -- of blogging while drunk. So I thought I'd take a different tack in 2005 and offer some less obvious things for which I'm grateful. In no particular order, then, this year I'm thankful that:

'Tisn't the Season

Really, I'm Not an Old Fart -- I Just Wanna Know Why Christmas Can't Wait 'til Thanksgiving is Done

ONCE UPON A TIME, the Christmas season was just that -- a season. Stores waited until Black Friday to hang their wreaths, radio stations played holiday music only on December 24 and 25, and Halloween and Thanksgiving were permitted to take their bows as legitimate autumnal celebrations.

Those days, of course, are gone, swept into the ashcan of history along with dial-up Internet access, cell phones that just make calls, and the Democratic Party.