New music discovery

Just discovered Florence and the Machine, via the good folks at KCRW. She's obviously still in the primordial stage, but we'll definitely be hearing from her again for quite some time. Here she is out-Candi-ing Candi Staton in Brighton:

Catching up

Let's see if we can get this thing moving again.

The other moral majority

Intriguing piece in today's Wall Street Journal about the emergence of the "religious left". Mike Lindsey calls it a "seismic shift". Seems more like a natural progression - and it will be interesting to see the degree to which Dobson's opposition to cutting greenhouse gas emissions will further marginalize his group from mainstream evangelical politics.

Random sighting

Jemaine Clement, at the New York Public Library, yesterday. Perhaps doing some research for his next role?

36 Hours in Philly

Spur of the moment trip to Philadelphia last Thursday, as the Missus and I are wont to do. We decided to take advantage of the “Spontaneous Suite” deal at La Reserve, a converted 19th century mansion in Rittenhouse Square. If you go mid-week, within seven days of reserving, you get the high-end room for the low-end price. Good stuff. We stayed in the Saratoga suite, well appointed with old-style Philadelphia furniture like this writing desk:


…but also with plenty of modern amenities, including a built-in television and cabinet and modern kitchenette.

We spent most of Thursday afternoon at the National Constitution Center, where we took in their exhibit on the life of Napolean. Very well-done, and thankfully (at least when we were there) absent the unruly crowds that can mar a traveling exhibit such as this. The curators did quite a good job in detailing the Bonaparte family’s relationship to the United States (as a boy, Napolean was an ardent student of our revolution, and he later discussed the possibility of self-exile in the States after Waterloo. And who knew who his brother, the King of Spain, was once a Jersey Boy?). The artifacts, including the only surviving decorative wall crest from his 1802 coronation at Notre Dame, and several maps from his military campaigns, truly illuminated the mix of militarist and megalomaniac that was Napolean.

The Constitution Center itself was a new discovery for me, my never having gone there on the countless school field trips taken to Independence Mall over the years. It’s a great looking building, with a hell of a front lawn, as seen here:


We started our tour with a multimedia presentation on the history of the Constitution – going back to the Articles of Confederation and running right through the recent debates about immigration and gay marriage. The presentation was held in a mini-amphitheatre in the center of the Guggenheim-esque exhibit hall, where everything from original copies of the Constitution to Sandra Day O’Connor’s black robe bring the nation’s jurisculture (yes, it’s a word. ‘Cause I say so.) alive. We kind of breezed through, but I definitely want to return and take a slower walk through the exhibits on another day.

We headed back toward Center City with the intention of catching a free performance of the famous Wannamaker organ at Macy’s, but alas, that evening’s show was preempted by a fashion event of some sort. Deciding we’d return in the morning, we headed off to Reading Terminal Market, heaven for any culinary enthusiast. In another economy, we’d have loaded up on the fish, fruit, pasta, and pastries, but alas, we were relegated to window shopping. No matter.

Back at La Reserve, our hostess recommended Di Bruno Brothers on 18th and Chestnut for groceries. The Missus is very finicky when it comes to Italian vittles, but the brothers came through. We picked up some delicious fresh shrimp lightly seasoned in Old Bay, baby arugula, and some salad dressing to add to the pasta and tomato sauce we’d brought in from Jersey. For desert, we got a…I don’t even remember what it was called. Suffice to say it was a big ol’ block of chocolate, the finishing thereof would be left to yours truly.

That evening in the Saratoga, we made great use of the kitchenette and enjoyed a dinner of shrimp and pasta while being serenaded with the sounds of “The New Adventures of Old Christine” on the television in the background.

The next morning, we enjoyed a very satisfying breakfast of our choice (I went with the French Toast. The missus went with the potato pancake), which we enjoyed with another couple from California in town for their son’s graduation from Drexel. We were also joined by a French couple who have been living in Miami for several years. The guy dragged his very accommodating lady up to see Eddie Vedder at the Tower Theatre. In return, she got a few days of sightseeing in the nation’s birthplace. We got into a very interesting discussion about the difference between French and American personalities. The young lady herself, while admitting to missing her friends and family, said the first thing she noticed over here is how much friendlier Americans are. As loathe as I am to believe the stereotypes about foreign peoples, I admit to feeling a twinge of “Yay us” at that remark.

The couple from California raved about the Barnes Foundation mansion in Merion, just outside the city, and the French couple seemed intent on seeing it before they left. We didn’t have time, but it sounds like we’ll have to check it out on our next day trip.

After breakfast, we checked out of La Reserve and wandered through Rittenhouse Square, admiring the unique architecture. I snapped this shot of a very gothic-looking house at the corner of Delancey and 18th:


I’ve always loved Philly’s narrow streets and alleyways, including this one at Waverly and 18th:


And of course I had to take the obligatory sax-player-on-the-corner shot:


We got to Rittenhouse Square, where a production company had set up shop while filming what looked to be a story about college kids in love. Or something:


After taking advantage of the improving weather in the park, we continued onto Macy’s, where we did finally enjoy a free performance of the world’s largest pipe organ:


Well, I did. The Missus was more focused on finding herself a new pair of shoes.

Seriously, though, this is one of Philadelphia’s semi-hidden gems. The original Wannamaker’s Department Store, which Macy’s now occupies, was truly a temple for the worship of free enterprise. And right smack dab in the Center Court, surrounded by soaring Corinthian columns, John Wannamaker installed this pipe organ to entertain the masses (or at least give the husbands and boyfriends something to do while the ladies did their thing in Housewares.) It remains one of the truly “only-in-Philadelphia” experiences.






Afterward, we crossed the street to City Hall for another “only-in-Philadelphia” experience (and number 1 on Pop Culture Casualty’s list of 15 things to do in Philly before December 31st). For five dollars, you (along with three other people, at a time), can ride the elevator up to the top of the tower from which William Penn has lorded over his domain since 1901. Best five bucks I've ever spent. Having been to the top of the Sears, the Empire State, the CN, and the Hancock, I can say that Philly's City Hall has them all beat by a mile. Unlike the aforementioned, you can actually see the city from the observation deck. No little mouse taxis or ant busses crawling through the urban maze, nor panoply of air conditioners and water towers shrouded in the summer haze. Nope. This thing has a real live view! Here's a shot I took of Broad Street looking south:


And you get a much closer view of the imposing Mr. Penn as well:


He seems to be saying, "'Sup Phillies fans!"

With only four people allowed up at a time, you'll have to reserve a spot early and then occupy yourself for what may be a couple of hours. The upside, though, is that you pretty much have what feels like the top of the world all to yourself - at least for 15 minutes.

Back down on terra firma, we headed over to JFK Plaza, aka Love Park, where we got in line to take a shot in front of the famous Robert Indiana sculpture. While waiting, I snapped this shot of a very enthusiastic group of modeling students from one of the nearby schools doing their best J. Crew pose:


After we got our own shot taken in front of the sculpture, I decided to take the Missus (again, an expert on culinaria Italia) down to the famous 9th Street Italian Market about which I'd read so much for some lunch. I figured, "If she dug Reading Terminal, she'll love this place!" When will I learn?

Alas, despite the unique layout and great opportunities for people watching, the market left her unimpressed. Perhaps the Di Bruno Brothers, ironically founded on 9th and Christian, set the bar too high with their Rittenhouse locale. Oh well. It was an interesting walk through a real Philly neighborhood at least:


Getting hungrier by the minute, we zoomed back up Broad Street...


...then, in the madness that is the Center City parking spot search, somehow wound up on the Franklin Parkway...


...before finding one of those "you don't have to pay after 6" spots in front of the Troc. Having missed lunch, we were now in search of dinner and ambled through Center City before stumbling upon the ingeniously named Italian Bistro on Broad, near Walnut. It wasn't Lydia's, but for two hungry travelers with Lydia's taste but dressed for Burger King, it was a real find. I went with the lobster ravioli:


...while the Missus went with her favorite - homemade gnocchi:


"Delizioso!" on both fronts, and the bill left us enough to cover the tolls back north. So we bid adieu to the City of Brotherly Love - well-fed, well-traveled, and well-inspired for our next visit.

Thoughts on Imette, and the fleeting permanence of youth

Last week, a Brooklyn jury convicted Darryl Littlejohn, 44, of the February 2006 rape and murder of graduate student Imette St. Guillen, 24. While murder trials are, unfortunately, part and parcel of life in a metropolitan area, this particularly gruesome case resonated with me a little more than most. Along the strange, circuitous road of life, the victim and I shared two crossed paths.

Just as I had left the New York area to spread my wings and earn a graduate degree in Boston, St. Guillen had come from the Hub to New York to work toward an MA in criminal justice at John Jay College. She grew up in Mission Hill, a Boston neighborhood where I’d occasionally go for a bite to eat before hitting the MFA and to where I once seriously considered moving before settling on Brighton.

By several accounts, St. Guillen had taken advantage of a break from her studies in much the same way my classmates and I would – with a night on the town. In my case, that usually involved the bars of the Alley, off Boylston Street, a couple of miles east of where St. Guillen grew up. In her case, she wound up in SoHo, where she would share with me a second crossed path.

In a fateful move, St. Guillen rebuffed a friend’s entreaty to take a cab home and continued alone to the Falls Bar, managed by one Danny Dorrian. Trial testimony revealed that St. Guillen had entered the bar only 15 minutes before closing and ordered two rum and Cokes. Dorrian testified that he asked her to leave, and claimed St. Guillen responded “I’ll leave when I’m finished my drink.” He then responded, “Either finish it, or I’m pouring it out.”

After St. Guillen finished her drinks, Dorrian ordered his bouncer, Littlejohn, to escort St. Guillen out of the bar. That was the last time anyone admits seeing her alive. The next morning, her body was found in a Brooklyn marsh, its condition enough to rattle even the jaded medical examiner.

I, too, had crossed paths with Danny Dorrian, more than 20 years ago on a baseball field in Spring Lake, NJ. His family, which had made its fortune in the saloon business, spent every summer in a rented house on Ludlow Avenue, blocks from the beach. Danny, along with his older brother, Chris, and younger brother, Jimmy, played in the same pickup baseball league I did. It was run by a local little league coach after the regular spring season had ended. Some days there would be 30 people playing, some days 9 or 10. It wasn’t the strictest league in the world. The purpose was just to have fun.

Of the three brothers, Danny always seemed the most on edge. I hate to use the clichéd “chip on his shoulder”, but he seemed easily angered and was always quick with a snarky remark toward those from whom he couldn’t gain anything materially. This manifested itself later when we both worked for the town beach department. The normal obscenity-laden braggadocio of insecure adolescent males was amplified ten-fold. Whereas his brother Jimmy could at least act friendly toward various peers, Danny wanted nothing to do with those who fell outside his clique. Of course, he rarely wanted for female attention, but that said more about the caliber of Spring Lake girls, another post for a later time.

Thus it was disappointing, but not at all surprising, to read of Danny’s alleged reaction when Imette’s friend told him that her body had been found: "New York can be a tough town." Compassion was never his strong suit.

During the trial, Danny admitted lying to police. He had originally told investigators he didn’t remember seeing Imette. His reasoning for this obfuscation conjured images of that same snarky 14 year-old I knew from the boardwalk decades earlier.

“I could just imagine the repercussions it would set off -- lawsuits, police, bad press. I didn’t want to get involved. If I pretended it didn't happen, maybe it wouldn't be true. I didn't believe it was true."

During our baseball playing days, Dorrian’s father Jack was sucked into the New York tabloid maelstrom when it was revealed that Jennifer Levin, the victim of the 1986 “Preppie Murder”, had met her killer, Robert Chambers, at Jack’s saloon, Dorrian’s Red Hand, hours before the murder. Though the business was never held directly responsible for the slaying, the stigma of association followed the family not only around New York, but all the way down to the Jersey Shore. I still remember Chris Dorrian, while at the plate, interrupting one of our games when an opposing player decided blurting out “Robert Chambers” would be a humorous way of rattling the batter. Chris proceeded to chew the idiot out for a good three minutes, with the umpire’s tacit approval, and none of us on the field blamed him. So it is understandable that any member of the family would be sensitive to the resurrected stigma of a murder associated even tenuously with the Dorrians.

Nonetheless, Danny’s testimony was a slap in the face to the St. Guillen family. “I didn’t want to get involved. If I pretended it didn’t happen, maybe it wouldn’t be true.”

The testimony was elicited during an almost laughable attempt by Littlejohn’s defense attorney to suggest that her client was being framed to cover up the fact that Dorrian had actually murdered Imette. With Littlejohn’s DNA all over the body and crime scene, jurors rightly saw through this charade.

Yet it also came out during that same testimony that Danny knew nothing about Littlejohn when he hired him through a mysterious middle man named “Tony”. "I thought he was in law enforcement. My understanding was that him and [another bouncer] would go after people who had subpoenas against them. They'd go out and hunt down people in trouble with the law.”

Thirty-three years, with even an Italian restaurant in Dublin under his belt, and it never occurred to him to do even a brief background check on this “friend of Tony’s”. His immediate actions after the murder were no less infantile. According to the New York Post:

Dorrian testified that he only decided to come clean a week later, after cops pored over the bar seeking evidence for 12 hours. Dorrian called his father and "asked how to handle it."
"It looks like there's a situation down at The Falls, and it looks pretty serious. A young lady was murdered, and I think the police should look at my doormen because they would be the last people to see her alive," he told his father, Jack Dorrian.
…his father and his brother-in-law Anthony Carbinetti -- who was chief of staff under Mayor Rudy Guiliani -- drove him to police headquarters to meet with detectives…

It has been said that our experiences in youth profoundly and irrevocably direct our experiences throughout the rest of our lives. Imette St. Guillen’s father, Seimundo, died in 1990 when Imette was only 8. An immigrant from Venezuela to Boston, he had Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees in criminal justice, but worked to rehabilitate lives as a drug counselor. After his death, Imette became fascinated with criminal rehabilitation as a public policy issue, and had already earned a B.A. in criminal justice from George Washington University. It was, in many ways, her father’s example that brought her to New York.

I don’t know what sort of experiences Danny Dorrian had during the fall and winter months of his youth. Yet his hiring practices, and his reliance, as a 33-year old business owner, upon his father for advice on “how to handle” police questions about a murder, indicate that the same, snarky adolescent who walked through the streets of my hometown as though the world owed him something never really grew up.

It cannot be overemphasized that the only person on Earth responsible for Imette St. Guillen's brutal murder, Darryl Littlejohn, was rightly convicted. And hopefully the St. Guillen family can now have at least some sense of closure.

Still, one wishes that of all the crossed paths Ms. St. Guillen and I could have shared, running into Danny Dorrian had not been one of them.

Rest in peace Imette.

Twitter's growing pains

Excellent piece here on the Twitter phenomenon. I'm still skeptical. All of the information we had to sift through before just to separate the wheat from the chaff. Now this? I'll probably wait for the next generation.