So to try to prevent the loss of this amusing silliness, I’m going to retype the words here, from memory, circa 1992.

If you go into the woods today,
you’re sure of a big surprise.
If you go into the woods today,
you will not believe your eyes.

For everywhere you’ll see Teddy Bears
all drawn up into orderly squares
‘Cause that’s the way the Teddy Bears have their rallies.

We learn unquestioning discipline,
and how to use M16s.
Our sergeants drill us until we are
robotic killing machines.

Amongst the brooks where nobody looks,
We burn the piles of forbidden books!
‘Cause that’s the way we Teddy Bears have our rallies!

Then it broke into a different tune altogether but still Teddy Bear themed, and I cannot recall the name of the original song it was parodying. But the gist of it was that the teddies were climbing into your bedroom in your sleep and slicing your throat open.

It was all wondrously disturbing and I’d love to meet whoever came up with all of it!

No, what’s interesting about it is the range of prices for this thing.

Chiasso offers it, for $118 plus shipping.

Tubular carries it as well, but for $89.00 shipped.

Amazon also sells it, but for $75.00 shipped.

Raindogs has it too, for $65.00.

And finally, Chef Giant wins the price war at $59.99 with free shipping.

The further you get away from kitchen supply stores and into stores that sell things based on design, the more expensive this item gets for seemingly no reason. I feel like I’m playing a round of Mystery Price.

Even at it’s cheapest, you’re still paying $60 just to hold 12 spices, or $5 per spice.

Incidentally, for that exact same amount of money, you could head on over to Ikea and pick up a 3 pack of their magnetic spice jars that look nearly identical. 12 jars cost you 1/3 of the price, so you could buy 36 of them for the same cost as the Soho @ Chef Giant. Yes, they have a plastic lid instead of glass, yes you have to remove the lid instead of just shaking, but at what point do you draw a line for how much money you’re willing to waste on decorative spice racks?!

For what it’s worth, I contacted Chiasso and told them that their product was 200% more expensive than other online retailers. The woman I spoke to didn’t particularly appreciate that.

Or perhaps I should say formerly favourite.

Ten Stone used to be an amazing bar. When I had my gorgeous place on 20th & South back in 2004, I happened to live on the same corner as this bar, and it became a staple of my diet. I mean, honestly, what wasn’t to love? New beers on draught every week, a menu with items ranging from a brie & bleu cheese fondue that is to die for to a filet mignon cheese steak that is like sex in your mouth. I ate there at least once a week and quickly became a regular. And the brunch, complete with mango mimosas, was brilliance.

It wasn’t just the food or beer that drew me in, it was just a really nice place to go. The atmosphere was great, the bar was a fabulous mix of brass and wood, everything about the place just screamed, “LOVE ME!”. And I did.

For this entry, I went back and totaled my Quickbooks spreadsheets for how much money I spent at Ten Stone that first year of living just a few steps down the street: $4741.89. That works out to a little over $91 a week, every week, for a year. Lots of beer, food, and friends. And even more important, a lot of good memories.

Sometime between then and now, something changed at Ten Stone. I can’t quite put my finger on it. Perhaps it was the glowing review in the Philadelphia Weekly. Perhaps it was the cheap food prices, drawing people in like bony hands reaching up from a watery grave. Whatever it was, Ten Stone has been infected, and I fear it’s too late for the patient.

I went there recently with Robin, Caroline, and a few others. I was immediately confused by my arrival at after midnight on a Friday; the place was absolutely packed. And even stranger…they were checking IDs at the door. I’ve been going to this bar for four years, and I’ve never once seen them look for IDs.

The service was appalling. It took us 15 minutes to get a table, and probably another 30 minutes before a waitress finally came over to us. Why we left, I don’t exactly know, I suppose it was hunger and desire for beer that kept us there. As I looked around, I noticed something else that was odd in the standing-room-only bar…everyone was drinking Miller Lite. Furthermore, the jukebox had been replaced by a new-fangled system that was replete with Coldplay and Sarah McLachlan, but devoid of Faith No More, Voivod, and Yes. And the prices had jumped by over 25% across the board.

“What in blinking blue blazes is going on here?!”, I thought to myself. Surely I had been transported to an alternate universe in which Ten Stone was a bar existing solely for fraternity brothers and their makeup-stained, brain-dead girlfriends. Except I wasn’t in an alternate universe, I was in this one, and this was really happening.

Thinking that what happened was a fluke, I went back on Sunday for brunch. The entire place was full of strollers full of screaming kids, and 30-somethings pretending to be worldly by trying a bloody mary that has, *gasp*, a shrimp in it. I was heartbroken.

Finally, last week, Megan and I tried it one last time. It was a weekday night, and not all that busy. We walked right in and sat down. And 15 minutes later, we didn’t have beers or menus. The rouge-clad waitress stamped her feet past our table several times, but regarded us as unworthy of her attention. That was the final straw.

I got up, grabbed Megan’s hand, and left the bar. We instead had a much better meal at Grace Tavern, just 2 blocks away.

Ten Stone, what happened to you? You used to be an amazing spot in the city. You were the place where I drank shots of Tullymore Dew on Christmas Eve as snow fell outside. You were the place where I could enjoy risotto fritters and a seared tuna steak with a milk stout for fifteen bucks. You were the reliable place for hangouts, dinner at midnight, blind dates, and good music.

Now, you’ve become a poorly serviced, expensive, unwelcoming place that has outgrown even itself. You’ve lost that je ne sais quoi that I adored. And more importantly, you’ve lost yourself a very loyal customer.

Pour la honte, Ten Stone, pour la honte.

The pilot came on to greet everyone and give his comments for the morning, and he said he’d recently been on a mission trip, and he’d like all the Christians to please raise their hands,” said passenger Jen Dorsey.

He said, ‘If you are a Christian, raise your hand.’ He said, ‘If you are not, you’re crazy,’” said Austin.

Not only is that incredibly insulting to the non-Christian passengers on that flight, it seems to have made everyone quite uncomfortable. I probably would have spent the flight pointing out Christian hypocrisy and Biblical mistranslations.

Of course, it’s well known that I’m not much of a fan of Christianity. To quote Dan Barker, “The Christian is a person who cuts you with a knife and then tries to sell you a bandage.”

So, basically, when I hear about stories like this, I chalk them up to bad attempts at evangelism that do more harm than good. And then I chuckle and move on.

“No, that’s not it. It’s one of those old Kodak tapes he used to buy. I think it’s in the wrong case. Ahh, here it is! Now where did that other one get to? Oh, right here!”

She hands me two tapes, both almost as old as I am. I flip them over so I can read their labels. The first one is a printout attached with packing tape, the second is written in his handwriting. They read “Palumbo Family Album”, and “Tony’s 20th Anniversary”, respectively. I was five years old when they were both filmed.

She stands up, hugs me. “I know, I miss your father too.” I can tell she’s holding back a tear. I utter a sheepish thank you. The tear makes a run for her cheek.

The drive home is both too slow and too fast. It’s been so long since I last saw my dad alive, I don’t even remember what his voice sounded like. I don’t remember his mannerisms, I barely recall his constant whistling. I need to remember. “You’ll be ok”, I tell myself over & over again in my head.

I walk inside, go to the living room, turn on the VCR and TV. A flip of a loose quarter decides which video I’ll watch first. Anniversary tape it is. I put it in the VCR, turn the volume up, and grab the box of tissues out of the bathroom.

And I can’t bring myself to push the Play button.

That was last night. I tried again tonight, with the same results. I guess I’m just not ready yet to feel that type of pain again. Maybe sometime soon, but not yet.

Normally this wouldn’t be even remotely noteworthy. However, at one point, the station began playing James Taylor’s “Carolina In My Mind” while showing a Panthers highlight reel. They finished the reel by saying the following statement:

“Nothing says hard-nosed January football like the music of James Taylor.”

I almost snorted iced tea out of my nose.

Also, there was so amazing news footage of angry Eagles fans punching other Eagles fans in the parking lots outside of the stadium. Damn glad I don’t live in South Philly right about now.

I fell asleep promptly last night at eight o’clock, in preparation for my long day. And it was quite a long day. I don’t mean long in the “Sitting through an extended edition of The Two Towers” way. I don’t mean long in a “taking the SATs for the first time” way. I mean long as in a “I think I’ll just jump on a plane and fly to New Zealand” kind of way. My day was nineteen hours long.

The gentle sounds of Billy Corgan’s guitar woke me from my sleep at three o’clock. I was sweating underneath my heavy down covers, and did not want to move from my bed. Upon finally turning the lights on and rising out of bed, I noticed that it was snowing, much to my surprise. I tend not to put my faith in meteorologists; they’re often wrong in the “you couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn” type of way.

A nice hot shower, a quick change of clothes, and I was out the door. The fresh powder slid off of my windshield with ease, and found a new home on my glasses.

Unlike a usual morning commute, today’s was exceptional. The trifecta of very early morning, “bad” road conditions, and only needing to drive three point six miles had me downright giddy. I have never seen the highway so deserted, or so obscenely beautiful, shiny and calm in a serene moment of pre-dawn bliss. (Yes, I of course took pictures.)

Arriving at the gate of my destination, I buzzed for the almighty security gods to acknowledge my prescence. The camera placed just above the speaker came to life, whirring and clicking, a ring of pure white light illuminating my face in the dark. I’m sure the combination of wind chill on my cheeks and blinding light in my face made for quite a lovely portrait of myself.

I knew the way from my trip here seven months ago, and I proceeded up the ramp, passed the second of too-many-to-count cameras, to the elevators, to the security desk, to the twisting hallways, to the cafeteria, to the metal staircase, to the break room where my coworkers were scarfing down soda and left-over hoagies from the night before. None of them had slept since their arrival twelve hours prior.

We made our way to our work room, a twenty-five foot by twenty foot area stocked with computers, monitors, hubs, switches, bridges, keyboards, mice, KVM switches, routers, tape backup units and their matching tapes, coils of ethernet cables, flashing LEDs, and other such friendly sights. The view from the room was spectacular. To one side, a foosball table, and to the other, downtown Philadelphia, a sight which would reveal itself many hours later once the sun finally found the energy to stand up.

The day consisted of many parts which are currently blurring together and vanishing from my mind. The combination of frantic work and then agonizingly slow waiting will cause you to find ways to pass the time. So we read, ate snacks, watched movies, ate breakfast, greeted arriving coworkers, ate, played games, discussed office intricacies, ate lunch, discussed politics, read some more, ate some more, read over one hundred and sixty pages of a book I had the foresight of bringing with me, ate dinner. This only occupied the first thirteen hours of my day.

Were we allowed to bring cameras beyond the parking garage, I would have snapped some of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. The crowds running in the fresh snow, the parking attendents slipping and sliding on ice, the steam rising off of skyscrapers, the parking garages filling, small icicles breaking making a break for it from their prison cells, only to be caught in an updraft and spin around in front of my eyes, hundreds of feet in the air.

From my view high in the air over Philadelphia, tucked away from all but a half-dozen other people, I watched the city unfold. I saw the sun rise brilliantly and yawn gracefully. I looked out in amazement as the pillars of steel and concrete surrounding me put on a light show, their offices filling up and clearing out. Everyone below me was oblivious to my gaze, but it felt as though they were performing for me.

I thought about immortality. I thought about how nice of a ride those three miles were. I thought about how many bottles of Sprite and orange juice I had consumed. I thought about where the closest bathroom was located.

Reality said to her sister Stress, “watch this effort in futility, watch them grow antsy and tired, watch them long for an end for this day”. Reality, to often being adored in the modern world, sometimes forgets that even she is fallible. For every minute I spent there, I wanted to spend two more. It seems Serendipity still knows how to pull a fast one on her sisters.

I can’t quite explain why I was so charmed by the experience. I see this city every single day. And it’s certainly not the biggest or brightest city I’ve ever laid my eyes on. But today, it just felt perfect. Everything was right. It didn’t matter that I was tired or cold, nothing could make me upset. Not the stiffness in my joints, not the overpowering roar of the machinery, not even the seventeen hours spent spent in two rooms. Everything just fit.

Maybe this is how some people feel when they first look out over New York city. Maybe this how some people feel when they climb a mountain. Maybe this is what it feels like to be rich and powerful, to look down over your dominion. To me, it just feels like happiness.

And I don’t think I’ll ever fully understand why.

Here is a close-up of the 4 stamps offered in the Music Maker series:

No big deal, right? Two reindeer, two Santas, and they are all playing instruments. But wait a minute, look again at that reindeer in the top left. Look familiar?

It’s Pan!

A little background: Citizenship Day was established in February of 1952 by President Truman signed a bill establishing September 17th as Citizenship Day. The significance of the date is that September 17th is when the US Constitution was signed.

Anyway, the real focus of Citizenship Day is to celebrate those who became citizens during the prior year. Yet, not even the recent citizens of the US seem to know about today. When I mentioned it to some friends last year, I was greeted with a harsh, anti-immigration retort. Rather sad, really.

So, for anyone reading this who recently became a citizen of the US, I hope you knew what today was. Your natural-born neighbors most likely didn’t.

First, Johnny Cash died at age 71, which made me unbelievably upset. However, immediately after I heard that news, I found out that John Ritter, the lovable star of “Three’s Company”, also died, at age 54.

As we all know, death comes in threes, so I’m just waiting for some other famous John to kick the bucket and complete the trifecta.

Pope John Paul II, I’m looking in your direction…