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(03/17/92 10:00am)
From Zelig Kurland's "Bacon for Breakfast," Spring '92 And before I'm branded and classified, let me state my position on fraternities: I make no generalizations about Greeks as a whole, but I do about houses. In other words, I like several houses. Simultaneously, I think several of them suck to the core. As for Zeta Beta Tau -- which has got a lot of attention recently -- I don't know any brothers so I don't have much of an opinion. But maybe I'm still a little biased because of that stripper-cucumber-ketchup bottle scandal. Either way, the opinions contained in this column are those of Wilbur. He's a guinea pig so go easy on him. Wilbur would like to comment on statements made in a letter to the DP written by Matthew Feinsod, president of Penn's ZBT chapter, which I will distort and exaggerate for rhetorical purposes: Feinsod writes: "It is unfortunate that the DP has chosen to brand indirectly all ZBT brothers as rapists by repeatedly referring to the University student as a 'ZBT brother.' " It's no secret that the DP isn't particularly excited about the Greek system. The pattern never changes: the DP nails fraternities collectively whenever it can grab the opportunity for exciting and provocative front page journalism. There's no question that an inch-high headline including the phrase "ZBT frat brother" brands the entire house. The location could have been disclosed with a lot more subtlety. So . . . fraternities protest on the grounds that misbehavior is the aberration of a particular misguided brother snuck in by communists. Also, they argue, the DP doesn't properly recognize the many wonderful philanthropic deeds that brothers have performed. For example, we keep hearing over and over that the founders of Stand Up Against Comedy are fraternity brothers. How nice. Naturally, it's contradictory to ask for bad actions to be treated as aberrations, and good actions to be treated as a reflection of the Greek system as a whole. The Greeks and the DP staff can get together and decide whether the actions of brothers should be treated individually or as representing the collective whole. Then they should treat all actions in the same manner. House functions and fundraisers, of course, can still be credited to the houses. We all know the joke: How many frat brothers does it take to change a light bulb? Five. One to do it and four to make T-shirts. In regard to comments made by University officials to the DP and The Philadelphia Inquirer, Feinsod writes: "These comments were made in total disregard of the [University's] confidentiality rules . . . and are unfair to the individuals -- the accuser and the accused -- involved in the process." Confidentiality rules should be in place primarily to protect the accuser and secondarily to protect the innocent-till-proven-guilty accused. They should not exist in order to preserve the prestige of the University or the fraternity system. Given that the accuser in this case consented to a front page interview, the "comments" were in no way unfair to the accused. "Rather than applaud the so-called achievements of the University in this case, all University officials must maintain the confidence and confidentiality required of them by the regulations," Feinsod writes. "Those University officials who are unable or unwilling to do so must be disciplined." It would be a sad day if any given rape case were to be buried by University regulations. You'd think that in the wake of the recent Oliver Stone movie "JFK," disclosure would be the hip thing. Only fools follow arbitrary bureaucratic regulation to the letter. Do we want the administration to turn its back like Minnesota's Carleton College did last year? The administration there refused to expel an accused rapist, so he raped again. Imagine that. At Penn -- and regardless of the location of any incident -- the signal should be sent out that if students rape, there is a chance of suffering consequences if they get caught. An example is more effective education than hype or propaganda can ever hope to be. How effective are the University's confidentiality policies anyway? Last semester a student was allegedly raped in the Quad, and the University's Almanac listed the location -- against the wishes of the accuser. This information may have been limited in scope had the DP not jumped all over the story and printed the location on the front page -- in inch-high lettering, of course. But oddly enough, no one wrote letters to the DP concerning violations of trust. I don't understand, why this double standard? What is it about this recent case that makes disclosure to the public so repugnant, especially after the accuser had consented to the coverage? Students have the right to know that students have been raped in frat houses, just as they have the right to know students are raped in the dorms. The flow of information in these cases should be controlled by the accuser -- not by the University and not by the DP. Feinsod concludes his remarks by suggesting that breaches of confidentiality "encourage . . . a lack of trust and respect for University officials, which unfortunately already exists on this campus." One word: brownnoser. Zelig Kurland is a sophomore English major from Charleston, West Virginia. "Bacon for Breakfast" appears alternate Tuesdays.
(02/21/92 10:00am)
From Caren Lissner's "Pretty Sneaky Sis," Spring '92. A lot of us don't want to admit that we grew up in the seventies. This recently became apparent to me when, upon turning 21, I tried to reminisce about the good old days. After all, I'm going to have to have stories to tell my kids some day, so it's important to think about what has changed since I was born. I enjoy remembering the seventies, but mentioning this decade to any of my peers causes facial contortions more violent than in any horror movie. Never mind the fact that "American Top 40" is now mainly composed of dance music and remakes of songs from fifteen years ago anyway. Everyone wants to forget their roots and pretend that they have always hated disco, and that they never worshipped John Travolta or watched Norman Lear sitcoms. It's so much better to live in the present, when we have more sophisticated number one songs. Like this week's chart topper, "Too Sexy," for example. I guess the fact that we identify more with the eighties than with the seventies makes sense. We were only in elementary school in the seventies. It's shocking to think that some of us were actually alive during Watergate and Vietnam, but not conscious enough to remember anything about it. The first news event I remember is the Bicentennial Celebration on July 4, 1976. I remember that we went to the pool that day. Learning to swim was more important than watching the news throughout most of the seventies. It was about 1977 that I realized I didn't know what was going on in the world, so I asked my mom why I was being kept in the dark. She answered, "We all are, honey, but just as soon as ConEdison gets the lights back on, we'll be fine." The first year I really became conscious of the news was 1979. This was mainly because I had to be so careful in 1979. If I looked at the solar eclipse I would go blind. If workers at Three Mile Island didn't fix the leak soon, we were driving to Florida. If the government didn't take care of Skylab, we were going to hide under the beds all day in case it dropped on our house. (I swear these were my mother's solutions.) But we're not defined by Skylab or the last total solar eclipse or even Pop Rocks and "Grease." Because we're not the disco generation. We're the MTV generation. According to the adults who put labels on generations, we want everything quick and to the point, like an MTV commercial. I'd like to think that we're sort of in-between, actually. Next year's freshman class is closer to the MTV-microwave-VCR generation than we are. Most people I know have adapted better to MTV than I have. I still think music is meant to be heard and not seen. I couldn't care less what Oxford Valley Cable took away. I guess I'm shaping up to be the grumpy old woman of my generation. My parents used to tell me what life was like when they were young. It seemed pretty glorious. Milk delivery. Knowing your neighbor. Being related to your neighbor. Does our generation have any stories like that? Sure we do. If most of the seventies have been forgotten, I suppose I can find something in the eighties to talk about. I was about ten years old when cable invaded my township. The advent of the new network excited me, because I liked the songs they used in the commercials, including "Centerfold" and "I Love Rock 'n Roll." The novelty wore off quickly, but luckily we had Atari. Of course, we didn't have Nintendo, the game system that keeps my younger step-brother and step-sister inside most of the day instead of playing in the street like my parents did. Actually, the kids are also inside a lot due to the VCR. They both knew how to work a VCR practically from the time they learned to talk. By the time I have kids, my stories of only being able to see a movie once will freak them out entirely. There are a few other things I'll be able to tell them. I'll tell them that phones actually used to ring. I'll also mention that they had dials, and that if you accidentally let go of the dial before pulling it all the way around, you had to dial the whole number over. Remember that? It was actually pretty tough for a little girl with tiny fingers. Perhaps I'll throw in the fact that pay phones only cost a dime. Someone recently told me that in Massachusetts they still cost a dime. I went up there to try to find out why they were so far behind the times. I never did find out, but I did get invited to a McGovern for President rally. I'll tell them about how there were only three networks when I was growing up. There was no Nickelodeon, so the only cartoons were on Saturday. They usually ended by noon, and then you had to watch stuff with real people in it, like "Land of the Lost," which sucked. I'll also discuss the horrors of not having had a Microwave. We had to wait at least 45 minutes to cook anything. And speaking of food, they almost had to cancel Halloween one year. People were afraid that sickos would mimic the person who had put all the poison in Tylenol that year. I went around anyway, and most of the doors had signs on them saying "NO CANDY" or "SORRY, TOO DANGEROUS." My mom didn't let me eat what I collected, so I sold it to a kid named John Basset on the schoolbus the next day. Anyway, that was when they started putting tamper-proof tops on medicine bottles. And I was there to see it happen. One thing that boggles the mind is trying to remember pre-computer times. I remember actually writing ten page papers on a typewriter in high school, and having to use whiteout (a new invention itself) every time I made a mistake! Then there is the symbol of all that is obsolete: the vinyl record. I often find myself stubbornly defending records when others encourage me to move on to smaller and better things. CDs scratch as easily as records, and they don't sound that much clearer, but nobody wants to admit this. Besides, you can get used records for a dollar each. I guess I'll be okay until my needle breaks and I can't get a new one. Our generation has certainly seen major changes, and we probably won't even be aware of all of them until we trip over our kids' history books and notice that there's a page detailing the incredible fact that Germany was once two countries, and that anyone who tried to go from one to the other got shot. It was shocking enough for me to discover recently that oldies stations now play songs from the seventies. The seventies! Can "Centerfold" and "I Love Rock and Roll" be far behind? · Caren Lissner is a junior English major from Old Bridge, New Jersey. Pretty Sneaky Sis appears alternate Fridays.
(01/22/92 10:00am)
I honestly feel that too much time is being dedicated to the "bicycles on Locust Walk" issue. To save everybody time, I offer the following suggestion, which at the same time resolves the "fraternities on Locust Walk" issue. We should simply ask all fraternities that line Locust Walk to smash all their empty beer bottles on the Walk. The result is obvious: we get rid of all the pestering vehicles. This includes bicycles, golf carts, campus security cars, cars belonging to people who are drunk or who are parading the Porsche that daddy bought them, and also that little helmet that in the fall announces when the Penn football team is going to lose their next game. In the process, we make fraternities an integral part of everybody's Penn experience. I realize my plan has certain flaws, so let me expand on what I feel are its most serious drawbacks. My plan fails miserably to be environmentally safe, since we should naturally be concerned about recycling the empty beer bottles. But let me point out that it would probably not take very many bottles to achieve the desired result and that the benefits outweigh the consequence of not recycling them. Another problem is that fraternities often prefer to buy cheaper canned beer, but I am sure that if the school would offer them a generous subsidy that they would willingly make the switch to bottled beer. There are, of course, more complicated problems such as the million dollar lawsuits that the school might receive because people will have little pieces of glass stuck to the bottom of their Armani shoes. Do not despair, because for this and all other complications I have a brilliant solution: we will form a committee which will dedicate all of its energies to the successful implementation of my scheme. DAVID MAYER College '92
(01/22/92 10:00am)
Two Saturday's ago, I was crossing Spruce Street at 39th when I slipped on the icy street and fell onto a glass bottle. When I got up, I noticed that my hand was gushing with blood. Luckily, or so I thought, my friends and I noticed Escort Service was dropping someone off across the street. The van emptied out, so when I went over and asked the driver (politely) to take me to the emergency room, I didn't think there would be a problem. I thought he was kidding when he said that he couldn't take me, so I showed him my hand that was covered with blood and repeated the question. Again he refused, and said, "[You] should have called first." I should have called first? When? Before I got hurt? Unfortunately, my psychic skills were not working that night. Anyway, it made no sense to me, and empty Escort van & wouldn't drive me with a terribly bleeding hand to the emergency room -- instead I had to take a cab. I had a perfectly acceptable form of transportation right in front of my eyes, but I couldn't use it. That is absolutely ridiculous. I definitiely learned a lesson out of all this. It took six hours in the emergency room, about ten stitch and a cast for me to realize it, but next time I'll be sure to call Escort before I get hurt. ROBBYN LEVENTHAL College '94
(11/21/91 10:00am)
In the 56 years since the book was first published, it's easy to imagine that such an important work might get lost in those stacks of Missouri Farm Reports and such on Van Pelt's shelves. So I took the time to locate it and tell you that it's right down in Rosengarten Reserve on the "BF" shelf. The twelve principles espoused as the goal of the book are still of great value to upwardly mobile students preparing for "The Real World" outside. Here are just a few of the things you will accomplish by reading Dale's advice: "1. Get out of a mental rut, think new thoughts, acquire new visions, new ambitions." 2. Make friends quickly and easily. 3. Increase your popularity. 4. Win new clients, new customers." Wow! Aren't these the very things we college students lust for? Popularity! Wealth! And it's all in one book! Forget all those long dreary Marketing classes. Drop those useless Comp Lit seminars! All you really need to know for success is in this one volume. For future marital happiness (an integral part of success and happiness), there are some things everyone should know. Dale writes an entire chapter of helpful hints on wedded bliss. Here is a list of questions Dale provides for you girls to make sure that all will be well in your household: "1. Do you give your husband complete freedom in his business affairs, and do you refrain from criticizing his associates, his choice of a secretary or the hours he keeps? 2. Do you try your best to make your home interesting and attractive? 3. Do you vary the household menu so that he never quite knows what to expect when he sits down to the table?" And the classic tip #8: "Do you compromise little differences of opinion in the interest of harmony?" Dale makes men ask themselves: "Are you careful never to criticize her before others?" And, "Do you thank her for the little jobs she does for you, such as sewing on a button, darning your socks, and sending your clothes to the cleaners?" For every positive answer you give to these and other questions you score ten points! And you insensitive men of the '90s should never think of forgetting to thank your wife for darning your socks! I once heard it said that literature ages quickly. But Dale gives advice that is not only pertinent to the '30s man, but is still valid today. For example, at the end of the "Twelve Ways To Win People To Your Way Of Thinking" chapter, Dale gives it to us "In a Nutshell." "Rule 1: The only way to get the best of an argument is to avoid it. Rule 2: Never tell a man he is wrong." And of course this important one -- "Rule 10: Appeal to nobler motives." I feel however that Dale missed some very important tricks that (as I have uncovered through years of experimentation and study) will help the average Penn student to "Win Friends and Influence People." With the holidays approaching here is some of my concrete, proven advice to help in your quest for friends and fortune: 1. Show up to all family gatherings completely smashed and continue to drink throughout the party, preferably straight Absolut on the rocks or bottles of the host's best champagne -- and make a comment if it's not French. (This proven method shows that you feel comfortable with your company and is especially good if you have to spend the holidays with your step-parent's family or in-laws). 2. Whenever the family is about to say grace (say right before carving the T-Day turkey), stand up and declare yourself a strict atheist who abhors religious ceremonies created to brainwash the masses. (This will show people that the University has opened your mind to creative belief alternatives, and that you are no longer intimidated about sharing your new knowledge.) 3. Males should scratch themselves publicly as often as possible. (This shows that you are not embarrassed by your physical being. Get in touch with your personal myth, guys.) 4. Complain aloud if you get any gifts you really hate. 5. Reality is important in every child's growth, so make it a point to show all small children you encounter that Santa Claus is really a fake. (None of the other wish-washys will have the guts to break it to them.) · Yes, I'm sure that Dale would have wanted it this way. Good luck in your striving, "To Win Friends and Influence People." Brian Kennedy is a sophomore English from Newark, New Jersey. Never Mind the Bollocks appears alternate Thursdays.
(11/07/91 10:00am)
f P.C. Sex The lustrous moon shined brightly through the large bay window. Leslie stood admiring its beauty, an island of tranquility in the sea of chaos surrounding her. Suddenly, a deep, suave baritone broke her concentration. Leslie turned to see who had spoken to her. Brad stood nearby, with a beer in his hand and a smile that revealed his chiseled jaw and ivory teeth. "Sure is a beautiful night, isn't it?" Brad said. "Yes, I was just admiring the moon shining through the trees," Leslie replied breathlessly. Brad took a step towards her. "Look, I don't want to seem aggressive, but I just wanted you to know how beautiful you are." Brad paused. "I'm sorry, that was sexual harassment, wasn't it?" A cloud passed over the moon and a chilly breeze gusted through the leaves. "I don't mean to treat you like a sex object, I only wanted to introduce myself." The moon once again cast its light upon her smile as she said, "Oh, God no, that doesn't even approach my definition of harassment. Just remember to stress the second syllable in "beautiful" not the first though." Leslie felt her heart throbbing in her chest as she looked into Brad's dark eyes. "I do appreciate your sensitivity though. What's your name?" "I'm Brad. Oh, and, just do me a favor and don't confuse my sensitivity with frailty. I try very hard to balance the two elements. Do you care to dance?" Leslie was swept around effortlessly in his arms as they danced to Summer Winds while the party wound down. She felt secure and relaxed as her Ferrari-red fingernails traced his shapely biceps, rippling under his tightly fitted sweatshirt. After the music stopped, Brad helped her put on her jacket. "I have a great bottle of champagne I've been saving ever since I first saw you last March. I swore I'd never open it until I was with you," Brad said gallantly as an amber leaf fell onto his shoulder. "Would you like to join me for a drink?" "I'd love to," she said, trembling with desire, for she had never met someone as mysterious and charming as Brad. Leslie put her long fragile fingers into his masculine hand as they strolled down Locust Walk, past the ivied mansions to his apartment. As he pulled out his keys, he turned, pulling Leslie so close that she could feel the fire of his heart, and kissed her with flaming lips. A moment later -- it could have been an eon -- Leslie and Brad were at his kitchen table sipping a bottle of vintage Moet. Brad went to the stereo and put on Wagner's Die Walkure. The driving rhythms made him feel like he was Siegmund, carrying his beloved Sieglinde. Brad and Leslie's desires blossomed like Sieglinde's flowery arias. Leslie sauntered across the room, her long legs accenting her womanhood with every step. They embraced, hugging and kissing with unbridled passion like two stars colliding to form a stronger, brighter light. Leslie ran her fingers through his blond wavy hair. Brad kissed her milky smooth neck as Leslie moaned in delight. He ran his tongue firmly up behind her ear, then he nibbled lightly on her earlobe as she pulled out her silver earrings. He whispered softly, "Look, I hate to do this, but, well . . . " Suddenly, the compact disc jarringly skipped a track. "You know how sensitive these things are today and all. And, well, I have to protect myself you know. I have this little form here I'd like you to look over and sign before we go any further." He pulled out the handsome sheet of resume quality paper, and held it up to the flickering light of the candle. "Item number one just states that, even though you might have had a few drinks, well . . . you're sober enough to know what you're doing. The second item just states that anything that happens here tonight is with your full consent. "I trust you so much it pains me to have to do this, my sweet little lamb." He kissed her forehead as she bent to catch the dim light. "Oh Brad, God -- don't feel guilty, I understand fully. I know what it's like. I just have a problem with this line about 'gives up the rights to any civil suits or other legal claims.' It's just too vague prima facie, and might limit my future ability to seek restitution for any tortuous act not expressly provided for herein. "Who knows? We might do business in the future and you might be able to use this unjustly as leverage. If you just cross out that line I'm sure I can sign it for you now, and we'll have my lawyer look it over in case we ever hook-up again, my dear." Brad moved the pen swiftly, erasing the contested statement. As the opera slipped into a gentle interlude, Leslie signed, grabbed Brad and pulled him tight. Their lips sealed into an impenetrable bond, leaving their tongues free to wrestle inside. But Leslie broke away violently, staring into his serene eyes as a sudden draft blew out the candle. "I'm glad we got that out of the way. It makes bringing this up all the much easier. I trust you totally and all, but, well, caveat emptor," Leslie explained. "You know, written protection is better than verbal. Here's a little thing I'd like you to look over before we go any further." She took his hand and sucked lightly on one of his fingers while she relit the candle to allow him to peruse the document. "Item one ensures through threat of a class action suit that -- even though I know you'd never . . . you won't go back and blab to all your friends about what went on here tonight. It's just that men sometimes abuse us by slandering us and spreading tales about what occurs in moments of passion. "The second item -- the so-called 'Respect me in the morning' clause -- guarantees that you will talk to me after tomorrow, not that it seeks full relationship, just that you don't ignore me after we have sex like most guys do." "Honey, I'd never do that," Brad whispered lovingly in her ear as he caressed her back. "Thirdly, even though I use the Pill, a sponge, foam and an IUD, and you, of course, will wear a condom with spermicidal lubricant, in case of accidental pregnancy you will bare half of the monetary burden. "The last clause is what I like to call the 'Mutual Satiation Guarantee,' which basically says that you must not roll over like a jerk and go to sleep as soon as you climax." She rubbed his thigh vigorously as he read it over. "Look, sweetie, all this is fine except for the 'no blab' clause. It's not that I don't agree with the principle, it's just that I feel it restricts my First Amendment right to free speech." "O.K., cross that line out. I'll initial it. We'll have my lawyer work out a wording that is more comfortable to both parties." The candle glowed with the fire of their passion as they fell together in a tempestuous, grinding kiss. The moon lit up the hall as they groped for his room. They fell in a fury onto his shimmering silk sheets. Rolling and twisting together like battling snakes, Leslie and Brad kissed and moaned. As his strong hand unhooked her restrictive brazier, Leslie whispered, "Brad, oh Brad, I'm sorry but I broke one of my nails today and I have a small cut underneath. Would you mind terribly if I wore rubber gloves? You know how it is with open wounds and all. It is the '90s." "My darling, do as you like." He passionately undid the buttons of her translucent blouse and began gently kissing Leslie's excited breasts. "Darling, I want you, God do I want you. Look, though, I scraped my stomach playing rugby yesterday, and I have a slight abrasion. Do you mind a little . . . Saran Wrap?" "Of course not! I understand your position. Oh, rugby, you're such a man. Come here, closer hurry, I want you now!" Brad and Leslie made love as if they were dancing Swan Lake. Every thrust was met with the perfect reply, every kiss answered with a kiss. Leslie felt her womanhood swelling up inside of her as she lightly bit his neck. They moved with the music, a symphony of squeaking gloves on crinkling plastic wrap, reaching every note with their passion, crescendoing together. They fell exhausted, as two warriors who have finished in a draw. Brad's chest rose and fell as he held Leslie in his arms, her head on his shoulder, protecting her from the cold. She could hear him snore softly. She reflected back on the evening's wonderful events as she peeled off the gloves and threw them towards the wastebasket. As she saw a glimmer of the moonlight reflecting off the Saran Wrap, Leslie thought that for the first time she felt true love. Brian Kennedy is a sophomore English major from Newark, New Jersey. Never Mind the Bollocks appears alternate Thursdays.
(10/31/91 10:00am)
cy, Cover-up, Murder Over the last five years, more than 30 seemingly unrelated people have died, one by one, under very mysterious circumstances. The dead include the following: Philadelphia lawyer Dennis Eisman, Financial Times Reporter Anson Ng, Swedish Prime Minister Olof Palme, Israeli counter-intelligence chief Amiran Nir and John Friedrich, an ally to Lt. Col. Oliver North. All of these men may have been murdered by "The Octopus." "The Octopus" is a name coined by investigative journalist Joseph Casolaro for a theorized "mega-scandal" linking the alleged October Surprise, the Iran-Contra Affair, and perhaps even the evolving BCCI scandal. Unfortunately, on August 10, before Casolaro could publish the results of his investigations, he was found dead in the bathtub of a Martinsburg, West Virginia hotel room. His wrists had been slashed. The local coroner ruled Casolaro's death a suicide. Before an autopsy could be performed -- indeed before his family even knew of his death -- the journalist was embalmed (which is against the law). A razor blade, a suicide note and a half-empty bottle of wine were found in the room where Casolaro died. But an autopsy conducted later at the request of the family showed no alcohol in the journalist's bloodstream at the time of his death. One thing was conspicuously missing from Casolaro's hotel room -- his notes on the "Octopus." Casolaro's family doesn't believe that his death was a suicide. They think he was murdered. In several conversations with his friends and family in the days before his death, Casolaro said that he was elated because he only needed to conduct one more interview before cracking the "Octopus" affair wide open. Ominously, Casolaro had received death threats in the past. He had even told his brother that if he died in an accident, "don't believe it." · The "Octopus" scandal that Casolaro claimed to have uncovered allegedly dates back to the 1980 presidential election and the so-called "October Surprise." Some commentators have alleged that Earl Bain, a former California state secretary of health under Ronald Reagan, may have helped the Reagan campaign broker a deal with the Ayatollah Khomeini to delay release of the 52 American hostages until Reagan was in office, a move that could have secured Reagan's victory in the election. As it happened, the hostages were released just as Reagan was being sworn in. Bain has denied involvement in any deal to delay the release of the hostages. · From alleged treason and election fraud, the "Octopus" scandal next turns to high-tech theft and espionage. In 1981, Edwin Meese, then an advisor to President Reagan, announced an $800 million effort to overhaul the computer systems of the Justice Department, the FBI and other law enforcement agencies. The only computer software available to meet the government's needs was owned by a small private firm named Inslaw. Inslaw contracted with the Justice Department in 1982 to install its system in the 20 largest U.S. Attorney's offices for $10 million. Soon after the system was installed, the Justice Department reneged on the contract and refused to pay Inslaw millions of dollars still owed to the company. Eventually, Inslaw was forced into Chapter 11 bankruptcy as a direct result of the payment dispute. In January of 1988, Bankruptcy Court Judge George Bayson ordered the Justice Department to pay Inslaw $6.8 million plus attorney's fees, saying that the Justice Department had stolen the software from Inslaw. Soon after Bayson's ruling on the Inslaw case, he was not reappointed to Bankruptcy Court, despite the fact that more than 90 percent of all Bankruptcy Court judges are routinely reappointed. The Justice Department appealed its loss in the Inslaw case to federal district court, but lost. Next, they appealed to the U.S. Circuit Court, which ruled last spring that the case was originally tried in the wrong court and must be reheard. Inslaw has alleged in court that the Justice Department gave the stolen software to none other than Earl Bain, the alleged mastermind of the October Surprise. The company further alleges that Bain then made millions by selling the software to dozens of foreign governments -- including foreign spy agencies. · Enter the mysterious Mr. Michael Riconosciuto. In 1990, Riconosciuto, who claims to have connections to American intelligence, came forward alleging that he had helped Bain set up the October Surprise and later modified the stolen Inslaw software for intelligence use. Apparently, Inslaw's software is perfect for keeping tabs on the movements of spies. In April 1991, soon after Riconosciuto gave a sworn affidavit to Inslaw's lawyers, he was arrested on drug charges. Riconosciuto claims the charges are trumped-up and that he is "a political prisoner," but remains in a Washington state jail without bail. Philadelphia Attorney Eisman, who was considering becoming Riconosciuto's defense lawyer, was found dead in his car with a single bullet wound to the chest on April 23 in an underground parking lot at 1500 Market Street. "He died of a contact wound directly into the heart," Philadelphia Homicide Detective Thomas Baker said Monday. "The weapon was found laying beside the car and the door of the car was open. The weapon was Eisman's weapon. There was an empty holster on his belt." "He had known for some time that he was under investigation for money laundering," Baker continued. "He found out the day before that he was going to be indicted." The Philadelphia Medical Examiner's Office ruled Eisman's death a suicide. But a woman in Eisman's former law office, who identified herself as a secretary who had worked with him for 10 years, said Monday, "No one who knew him believes it. I guarantee you he didn't do it to himself." The secretary refused to give her name, saying "whoever killed him could do the same to me." As for the possible indictment, the secretary said it never came down, adding, "I don't think they had anything on him." "They [The Justice Department] were harassing him," she said. "They wanted privileged information from him [about his clients] so they were giving him a hard time." · Several other suspicious deaths have been linked to the "Octopus," according to the Napa Sentinel -- a twice-weekly paper in California run by a self-described former intelligence officer. "Anson Ng was found dead a month before Casolaro," The Sentinel reported in September. "Ng had a single bullet wound in his chest -- like Eisman. His death was ruled a suicide." Ng, the Sentinel reported, was in Central America attempting to interview a man who allegedly held documents showing that individuals involved in an "Octopus" cover-up had a hit list, which included Swedish Prime Minister Olof Palme (whose assassination has never been solved), Israeli Counter-Intelligence chief Amiran Nir (who died in a mysterious plane crash) and John Friedrich, a close ally to Lt. Col. Oliver North. (Just two weeks before Casolaro's death, Friedrich was found dead in Australia with a single bullet wound to the chest.) · Between August 1988 when he was appointed Attorney General and the day he resigned from that post to run in Pennsylvania for the U.S. Senate, Richard Thornburgh was repeatedly asked to appoint a special prosecutor to look into the Inslaw case. Despite the pleas -- one even came from former Attorney General Elliot Richardson -- Thornburgh refused, calling Inslaw's lawsuit "a petty contract dispute." Thornburgh's Justice Department also refused to turn over documents on the Inslaw case to a Congressional committee investigating the matter until he was forced to do so by a Congressional subpoena. Committee staffers say that even now key documents are missing. The question one is left with is why didn't Thornburgh appoint a special prosecutor to look into the Inslaw allegations? Did he have something to hide? Is he somehow complicit in the "Octopus" scandal? Perhaps the Reagan administration chose Thornburgh for the attorney general post because he would keep a lid on any investigation into the matter. Remember, Justice may be blind, but Justice is also a politically appointed position. The whole "Octopus" story sounds like a Lyndon LaRouche theory. But the charges are worthy of investigation because if people start behaving like they are above the law, they are likely to continue that pattern of behavior until someone stops them. Steven Ochs is a senior Economics major from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and editorial page editor of The Daily Pennsylvanian. Whose Dream, This Reality appears alternate Thursdays.
(10/10/91 9:00am)
he University "The Boy died in my alley Without my having known. Policeman said , next morning 'Apparently died alone.' 'You heard a shot?' Policeman said. Shots I hear and shots I hear, I never see the dead." I was reminded of this Gwendolyn Brooks poem earlier this semester as I was sleeping at a friend's off-campus house. Around 4 a.m., I got up to go to the bathroom. At the same time a violent fight began outside on the street. In my semi-conciousness, I thought little of it and continued to go about my business. After three years of going to school in Philadelphia, this was nothing special. I listened to the swearing, the screaming, the breaking of glass, and then emerged from the bathroom into the dark hallway where one of my friend's housemates stood frantically trying to decide what to do. Figuring she thought I was a burglar, I reassured her that everything was all right. Of course, nothing was all right. Her panic arose from her fear that one of her friends might be coming in at that moment, passing through the bottle-fight gauntlet on the street. Furthermore, she thought she had heard one of the fighters outside being seriously hurt. The police arrived moments later, and I went out to survey the damage. The combatants had fled, leaving nothing but broken glass. The cops could offer no help in explaining what happened. Everyone returned to bed, but few went back to sleep. It was just another night in West Philadelphia. One group of my friends tried to make a collage of all the crime stories reported in the University area. In six weeks, they had covered half a wall with news clippings and decided to stop so they would not crowd out their posters. A good deal of the crime goes unreported, as students feel nothing will ever be done about it anyway. One friend was beaten up last year by four local youths directly across from President Hackney's home. However, my friend didn't report it because he feared his parents would find out through The Weekly Pennsylvanian and want him to come home. The trustees come to town to discuss the future of the University and spend three-fourths of their time dealing with crime statistics. Fear grips our campus. Increasing the size of the police force will do nothing to decrease the amount of crime. We want to put a band-aid on the cancer of our society. I promise you that this will not work. Gwendolyn Brooks' poem comes to mind because it questioned the poet's complicity in the murder of a neighborhood child in the alley: "I have always heard him deal with death. I have always heard him shout, the volley. I have closed my heart-ears late and early. And I have killed him ever." As students, faculty, administrators and employees of this University, we are responsible for our environment. When a male student gets shot in front of Smokes (as happened my freshman year) or a female student in a backpack robbery attempt gets dragged a block by a car, we helped to pull the trigger, we grabbed the bag. To quote Brooks: we have "joined the Wild and killed him/with knowledgeable unknowing." "On what do you base your logic?" you may ask. "I wasn't even a student here last year when those things happened." Granted, we do not participate in these crimes; however, we directly collaborate to create the society in which we live. Our inaction in combating homelessness, drug abuse, broken families, a decrepit education system and the rest of the mammoth list of daunting societal dilemmas is exactly what makes these problems appear so incorrigible. Clearly, something must be done. I could use this essay to encourage my fellow students to become involved in the community, but I doubt that I could say anything that they have not heard before. In helping others, you help yourselves. The time devoted to service is never wasted time. One person really can make a difference. If everyone did their one bit of good, then we'd live in a much nicer place. These are all time worn expressions. But barring the advent of a mass popular movement to combat the increasing instability of this city, we at the University must move boldly to stop the madness ourselves. Stop the madness of students getting shot while moving into their apartments. Stop the madness of two out of five Philadelphia residents not knowing how to read. Stop the madness of tennagers carying guns to school. We must act proactively not just for the welfare of the University in the '90s, but into the next century. The time has come for mandatory public service for all students in the Penn community. I know the arguments against this before they even reach the letters-to-the-editor box of the DP. Some may say, "We come here and pay good money for our education, not to perform welfare work for a city that can't even balance a budget." This rebuttal is well-founded. We students didn't really break the branch off the tree that was used in beating an Economics graduate student to death four years ago. The city in which we happen to go to school turns out to be one of the worst managed in the country. This can't be our fault. But if you could do one thing to prevent a fellow student from losing his or her life while travelling home from the library late at night, wouldn't you? Some may say, "I'm busy enough as it is. I couldn't possibly find any time for community service." There's never enough time, but somehow everything gets done. As students, we make time to do the things we have to do and then divide the remaining time up for things we want to do. I believe that once you get involved in community activity, it will become something you want to do. Furthermore, one only has to devote a few hours a week to services such as the West Philadelphia Tutoring Project. How will helping a third grader learn math prevent crime? The third grader will grow up having a role model for success and an education, two factors that help keep the child out of trouble. Before dismissing this proposal as an idiotic liberal raving, remember that William Buckley, Jr. shares the same central notion. To paraphrase the conservative pundit, mandatory public service, like gravity, is something we could accustom ourselves to and grow to love. In the meantime, as you forcefully walk home from Steinberg-Deitrich at three in the morning, reflect on what Gwendolyn Brooks had to say about violent crime: "The red floor of my alley Is a special speech to me." Jeffrey Howell is a senior English major from Seekonk, Massachusetts. Harold Ford's column, which usually appears in this space, will appear on Monday.
(10/09/91 9:00am)
Last year, Pennsylvania ran up a budget shortfall of over $1 billion. Its state government was forced to raise taxes to unprecedented levels and to slash important social programs across the board. A couple of weeks ago, it decided not to renew Smokey Joe's liquor licence. This, after it spent thousands of dollars for Liquor Control Board officers to raid Smoke's and several other campus-area bars over a period of more than a year. Clearly the good civil servants of the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania have their priorities straight. Sooner than give up a valiant and noble crusade to rid the state of 20-year-old drinkers, Gov. Robert Casey and his fellow morality makers in the statehouse cut state funding where it isn't really needed -- like aid to higher education and aid to the state's biggest city. Someone needs to give the good governor a good slap upside the head. · When the federal government twisted the states' arms to increase the drinking age to 21, the rationale was that the number of driving fatalities related to alcohol would drop. It was not, they stressed, a moral issue. It was instead a practical one -- take drinks out of the hands of a section of the population, and they will not be able to drink and drive. Forget that this rationale is similar to arguing that we should not allow people to buy baseball bats because they could be used to beat people over the head. Forget that the policy punishes people who use alcohol responsibly. Forget that tough-as-nails laws against drunk driving have a similar effect in a more equitable fashion -- the federal government threatened to take away highway funds if the states failed to fall into line. But the new campaign by the LCB against campus-area bars, which is becoming increasingly vindictive, flies in the face of the whole logic used to support the 21 drinking age. The net result of closing bars around a university, where most students live on campus, will literally "drive" students off campus to find bars. It is naive to think that students will not drink. It is dangerous to foster an atmosphere where students will be more likely to drink and drive. What the state did by passing strict underage drinking laws in 1988 was not to help the fight against drunk driving. Instead, the laws are more like moral dictums passed down by the "knowers of right" in Harrisburg who feel a need to protect citizens from themselves. As a nation built by Puritans and a state built by Quakers, there has always been something holier-than-thou in the way the U.S., and Pennsylvania in particular, have dealt with vices. Things that often provide an amount of corporeal pleasure -- alcohol and sex, to name the biggies -- are for some reason looked upon as evil or dirty. Our false moral rectitude provides our Western European counterparts with a little chuckle. Americans, they say, hate to have fun. Europeans say we are embarassed by our desires and try to hide them. Whether you agree or not, it is clearly not the role of the government to decide what is morally right. And behind these philosophical arguments stand the practical ones. The strict enforcement of underage drinking laws is forcing students further off campus, where they are more susceptible to crime and more prone to drink and drive. If they chose not to drive to find alcohol, students will turn to the hard stuff in their rooms before they go out on campus -- a practice that is both unhealthy and unsafe. It is clear, however, that no matter how loud we yell and scream, the legislators will not listen to our mostly-out-of-state-non-voting voices. The University has a responsibility to mitigate the repercussions of these laws. Non-alcoholic alternative events, like those sponsored by the Social Planning and Events Committee, are one answer, but alcohol will still be consumed even as these events grow in popularity. And there is no reason why alcohol, when used responsibly, should not be part of a healthy campus social scene. Drinking can be fun, and should not therefore be seen as something evil and dirty. Rutgers University has realized this fact and recently instituted a policy that allows students to drink -- indeed, it encourages students to drink out of kegs to avoid the hazards glass bottles present. Students who want to host campus parties must attend presentations on drinking responsibly and register their kegs with the school beforehand. According to the dean in charge of monitoring the new plan, "students will act responsibly and take responsibilty for others" who drink. The University and the state should follow the lead of our cousins across the Delaware. Peter Speigel is a senior History major from Phoenix, Arizona and managing editor of The Daily Pennsylvanian. Laughter and Contempt appears alternate Wednesdays.
(10/01/91 9:00am)
Wharton senior Mike Fernandez said he throws his trash in the dumpster. He said he wants to recycle, but doesn't know where he can do it. Fernandez, like many off-campus residents, is not aware of the curbside recycling program available in West Philadelphia. Angie Coghlan, coordinator for the Spruce Hill and Cedar Park Areas Plastics Recycling program, said the beginning of the school year is the best time to educate and inform off-campus residents as well as the University community about the recycling program. "It's like reinventing the wheel," she said. "With groups of students leaving and entering the area, it is necessary to keep going back over the same information and procedures con cerning recycling." On campus, dormitories have recycling containers for aluminum cans and all paper products. Easily accessible in each dorm is a red dumpster for aluminum cans and a yellow dumpster for paper products. Off-campus residents can use these facilities as well. Nick Sanders, coordinator of the Spruce Hill Recycling program, which services students living off campus, said about thirty corners from 40th to 51st Streets are drop sites for recycling. "Our curbside pickup program is a successful one," Sanders said. "We are an outlet for a growing concern in the community, and consequently, the student turnover is always big." Sanders added that the Spruce Hill program has been cited as one of the most economically efficient programs in the city because of the large number of participants and high volume of recyclable materials received. "We continually bring in more materials than other parts of the city," he said. Sanders said corner pickup takes place the first and third Saturday of each month. All materials in Spruce Hill area should be out on the corners by 11 a.m. and in Cedar Park by 10 a.m. If items are left in advance of these times, they may be removed by trash pickup. "By participating in our program, we are able to supply manufacturers with recycled products. That's the first step," Sanders said. "However, [consumers] must take the second step -- demanding recycled products and then creating a market for them." Acceptable items for the corner pickups are: aluminum cans, newspaper, office paper, computer paper, and glass, but clear glass, green and brown bottles and jars only -- no ceramics, drinking glasses or lightbulbs. Like materials should be separated, then appropriately bagged, tied, or boxed. Although plastics can be recycled too, they are not collected at the general recycling corners. Coghlan said recyclable plastics may be left at the Firehouse Farmers' Market at 50th Street and Baltimore Avenue or at the Northwest Corner of 40th and Locust Streets. Plastic items can be dropped off between 10 a.m. and 1 p.m. at either station on the first and third Saturdays of every month. Recyclable plastics include water and milk jugs, soda and seltzer bottles, and laundry product bottles. Sanders said the proceeds from Spruce Hill Recycling go to local recycling, environmental and community groups. In the past, the groups have included Clean Air Council, Philadelphians for Recycling, University City Arts League, and the police mini-station at 44th and Walnut streets. Coghlan said her plastics recycling program uses its funds to support local students in continuing higher education. Both programs are organizations run solely by volunteers. Despite the extent of recycling capabilities, some materials cannot be accepted for recycling. Magazines, glossy ads, cardboards, telephone books, mixed paper, folders and envelopes, frosted or painted bottles, plate glass, car windows, and metal cans should not be left at the corners for pickup. These corners include: 40th and 44th and Walnut Streets, 42nd and 46th and Locust Streets, 45th and Spruce Street, 43rd and 45th and Osage Avenue, 42nd Street and Baltimore Avenue, and 44th Street between Baltimore and Larchwood Avenues. For more information or to volunteer, call 726-8126 or 662-5636 for corner recycling and 729-6273 for plastics recycling.
(09/26/91 9:00am)
Recycle this newspaper. Put it in one of the many white plastic tubs labelled "mixed paper" found all over campus. And then give a big round of applause for the University, whose year-old recycling program will receive an award from the city of Philadelphia next week. Dezzi plans to present University Recycling Coordinator Albert Pallanti with a citation at a recycling convention next Thursday at Thomas Jefferson University. Pallanti said he will make a presentation of the University's program at the convention. Pallanti added the University recycles 45 to 50 tons of mixed paper each week, which is 25 percent of the total waste produced at the University. The University also recycles cans, but Pallanti said Physical Plant does not keep an accurate account of them. And just as the University receives an award for its extensive recycling program, an extension of the program is scheduled to begin next month. The University plans to start a program for disposing of glass bottles and plastics with receptacles first being placed outside Steinberg-Dietrich Hall, in the Graduate Towers and in the Towne Building. Pallanti said Physical Plant is also planning a pilot program for recycling laser toner cartridges used in the printers in administrative offices. Currently, about half of the cartridges are sold back to the vendor and recharged. The University instituted its recycling program last September, in response to a city law mandating that institutions recycle and to student criticisms that the University was dragging its feet. "There were a lot of people who really wanted a sincere recycling program but still had to push the issue through a lot of red tape," said College senior Colin Yost, former president of the Penn Environmental Recycling Group. "Penn got lucky in a sense, because it found [a recycling company] willing to take all of our paper products." Pallanti, who headed the administrative efforts to implement a recycling program last fall, credited student groups with pushing the administration forward and for publicizing the efforts to students. In the past few years, the Environmental Group and the Undergraduate Assembly Environmental and Recycling committee have pushed the administration to start and expand current programs. In fact, it was students who started the first environmental programs on campus. And both groups have presented the administration with proposals and lists of goals which Pallanti said the University has tried to meet. "I personally meet with both groups and they have a very positive influence," Pallanti said. "They assist in the basic follow-up with the students, advertise on Locust Walk . . . they're the publicity department of our program." UA committee Chairperson Jennifer Berrent said the group will continue with publicity this year, with a new campaign of "recycle, and tell your friends to recycle." "We want to go with the idea that if you tell two friends, and they tell two friends and they tell two friends . . . If you can get two of your friends to recycle it can make a huge impact," Berrent said. Yost said that while the University has come a long way, it still does not buy recycled products, which he said is an important part of any recycling program.
(09/16/91 9:00am)
A man robbing a house on Chestnut Street inhabited by University students "thought he could fly," Craig Hollerman said yesterday. The Wharton senior, who lives in the house, said when his friends found the man robbing a third-floor room at 8:22 p.m. Friday, they yelled at him to stop. "Some black dude climbed up a tree, broke into the third floor, and took two CD players," College senior Chris Busconi said. "He ran down the hallway and jumped out of the window with the players in hand." The man survived the 35 to 40 foot drop to the alley behind the house with two broken ankles, Busconi said. "He broke both his ankles, but miraculously the CD players were unharmed," the resident added. "We and the police found him crawling down the alley." Hollerman mused, "I think he was on crack or something." University Police Sergeant Lawrence Salotti said yesterday that police responding to the burglary report found the man with broken ankles in the alley. The house, located at 3721 Chestnut Street, has been burglarized seven times during the past two years the students have lived there, residents said. "We asked the landlord to put bars on the windows [when the crimes first occurred]." Busconi said, adding the house was robbed the week after the bars were installed. The students then asked the landlord to put bars on the inside of the windows, and for the past year and a half, there have been no incidents. Hollerman said that several bicycles have been stolen during the past summer, but that no one has been injured or threatened. Busconi said he has chased away several people who he caught throwing bottles at his house and this semester he caught one man "chiseling" at a side door to the kitchen.
(06/13/91 9:00am)
You enter a smoky, dimly-lit room, its walls graced with Arabic script. Exotic strains of guitar music twang in the background as you cross the tiled floor, and a fez-capped waiter in harem pants leads you through a maze of mosaic-patterned couches. You recline in a dark, cozy corner, surrounded by plump cushions, and your charming guide kneels tableside, instructing you in the customs of a far-off land. Your mind reels as he brings dish after dish -- seven sumptuous courses in all. Where are you? a sheik's royal banquet? a desert oasis? a Near Eastern opium den? Answer: All of the above -- Marrakesh, located at 517 S. Liethgow Street (just off South), has been offering far more than just a prix fixe meal since 1977. According to the restaurant's manager, Nina Frangieh, a family named Kouchacji, originally from Lebanon, opened their first Moroccan restaurant on the East Coast (there is also one in Washington, D.C.) with the goal of providing customers with an authentic, unique experience. · We visited Marrakesh on a crowded Saturday evening, and the waiter immediately bombarded us with friendly banter and knowing advice. "Is this your first time at Marrakesh? . . . Here we will serve a meal as you would experience it in a Moroccan home . . . First you will wash your hands, since you will eat with them." After pouring water over our hands, our waiter spread a towel-sized napkin across our laps, and the feast commenced. Course one was a pungent vegetable salad, served in a shallow ceramic bowl. The salad was served with a hunk of dense, floury bread, which we dipped into the pickled sliced carrots, tart eggplant and mildly spicy cucumbers and peppers. When we finished the bread, we scooped up the oily slaw with our fingers, a delightfully naughty sensation, and one which was to enhance the entire Marrakesh experience. My dinner companion and I ordered the reasonably-priced house red wine, available (as is the house white) by the carafe. We were informed matter-of-factly that it was a California brand. The couple next to us was enjoying a bottle of special Moroccan brew, which was on the more expensive side. A few sips of the full-bodied wine, and along came course two: a searing hot shredded chicken-and-egg mixture encased in filo dough, and sprinkled with powdered sugar and a touch of cinnamon. The room was so dark that it was difficult to discern exactly what it was that I tore apart with my fingers, but somehow that didn't seem to matter. While waiting for dish number three, I glanced around the room. Next to us sat a middle-aged woman sitting quite close to a rather young man. Across the room a group of six thirtysomethings cooed over a baby, and discussed kitchens and snakes. Farther down, a loving couple fed each other grapes. I wondered what course they were on. Dish three was "spicy chicken," a supernaturally tender meat doused in a fiery curry sauce and served with bitter green olives. I am not usually fond of spicy foods, but by now something -- the atmosphere or the wine or both -- dulled the effect to a near-pleasant tingle. Next, course four offered a choice of beef or lamb. We opted for beef shish kabob, blackened on the outside, salt-and-peppery inside, garnished with orange slices. While pulling the meat off the skewer with my fingers and tearing it with my teeth, the everpresent waiter popped by, bringing washcloths scented with rosewater for our hands. · With three courses still to come, I realized that I had forgotten my watch. This was fine with me; I had been in this Near-Eastern Oz for at least an hour and had no desire to click my ruby slippers. · At the couch next to us, a smiling foursome were diving into their cous-cous, course five. When ours arrived, we understood the smiles -- the curious mixture of cooked onions, grainy squash, burnt raisins and Moroccan grain, simmering in a lamb-tinged sauce, provided apt compliment to the heavier meat dishes. The gluttonous manner in which we shoveled this fare into our mouths seemed awfully humorous. And by now we certainly appreciated our mammoth "lapkins." While reclining into item number six, a huge bowl of fruit, I began to ask myself what exactly about this Marrakesh produced such a collective feeling of good will and camaraderie. My comfort and contentment certainly had something to do with the knowing, mischevious looks I received from patron and waiter alike. Eating with our hands in a warm, close room creates a curious feeling of intimacy. I also wondered why the Red Delicious apple I munched on was indeed the most delicious I had ever tasted, even after five other dishes. Perhaps it was the fluffy pillows I sank into, or the music which seemed to rise and fall erratically with my heartbeat. Or maybe it had something to do with the fact that my shoes had slipped off, and were hiding somewhere among the couch cushions. · After the fruit, mint tea, served in a manner that one must see to believe, was a perfect palate cleanser, balancing out the meal. And the final course, sticky-sweet baklava, honey and chopped nuts wrapped in a triangle of flaky pastry dough, rested in a pool of rose-flavored syrup. I could only manage two bites of this dessert, for by this time my limits had been exceeded. I was astonished by the amount that I consumed; I felt leaden but light-headed. The room seemed darker than before. From all sides I heard whispered murmurs: " . . . I could fall asleep . . . Do I have to stand up? . . . " I resisted my own urge to doze off, and left the meal with honeyed hands. (With all the attention paid us by the staff, I had to question why we weren't honored with a final rinse. Perhaps so the check wouldn't slip out of our fingers?) · Dining at Marrakesh costs $20 per person, with 15 percent tip and tax tacked onto your bill, in case you're too overwhelmed to add properly. Make sure you call for reservations, because seating is limited and this joint is really popular. Above all, remember that Marrakesh is more than a restaurant, it is an experience; this is not a meal to be rushed through, or taken lightly. Visit Marrakesh with that person you want to get closer to -- feed him or her some grapes, and watch the patterns dance on the walls. Or bring five or seven close friends for some soul-searching. Don't wear a watch. After dinner you will walk out into the night air, spirit a bit lighter, and feel like you are missing something, as if some sort of home exists in that warm intimate den, and "real life" is a rather unwelcome prospect. This strange sensation wears off in an hour or so. But you'll be back. (CUT LINE) Please see DINING, page 9 DINING, from page 7
(06/06/91 9:00am)
A Summer Times reporter spends 24 hours with a group of homeless men, learning what it really means to endure.
Johnnie is looking for $5.08 — the price of a half gallon of Thunderbird wine. He counts his money slowly and precisely as he hands over the total of $2.50 to his best friend T., who says he’ll combine their funds to buy the “vino.” Johnnie reaches into his sack to get an Egg McMuffin that he scrounged from the dumpster behind McDonald’s, and offers a cold cheeseburger to June, another longtime friend. Johnnie says he has to find ways around the security measures which McDonald’s uses to protect their garbage. He salvaged his most recent haul by scaling a 10-foot wall, climbing over the barbed wire at the top and jumping into the dumpster. The two eat their sandwiches in silence, and they watch the students hurry down Locust Walk. Occasionally the silence is broken when a pretty girl walks by and June comments that he wants a college girl, “who’s got her head on straight.” He adds that the right girlfriend would bring him back from the dead-end path of “crack and cheap sex.” As the hot summer sun beats down, and the salty food is eaten, both men say they are dying for a drink, but T. has not yet returned with the wine. Luck is with the men today, and the attendent allows them to take the ice, which they bring to the side of a nearby house and fill from a garden hose. They have come to rely on the spout since Roy Rogers recently restricted the amount of free water they will give to the homeless. Johnnie says he was an All-Star basketball and football player while in ninth grade and then dropped out of school when his mother died. Shortly after, he eloped with an Italian girl named Donna and moved to Tallahassee, Florida. The two were passionately in love and they moved first to Miami, and later to Philadelphia in the mid-‘70s. Johnnie had only been in Philadelphia a short time when his “life fell apart,” — banks repossessed his house and car, and his wife walked out on him. This series of catastrophes caused him to begin to drink heavily. “I see Donna once in a while,” Johnnie says. “She’s whoring downtown.” Johnnie remembers one night when Donna tried to stop him from going to a bar because she was afraid something bad would happen. That night, Johnnie stabbed and killed a man he knew because the man uttered the threatening phrase, “I just don’t like you, Johnnie.” After serving a prison term, Johnnie remarried in 1979. He and his second wife, Mumsey, who is also homeless, are not faithful to each other. Johnnie will turn 40 in several weeks. · Tommy returns to the shady bench and tells them the word on the street — someone was shot last night in The Bottom (also known as “The Bucket of Blood.”) The Bottom is the area surrounding 40th and Lancaster — a crack haven where the homeless purchase drugs and get high in the crack houses and cheap hotels. The talk of the murder, however, soon dissipates (Johnnie says that death is an everyday occurrence for him and his friends). The topic of discussion moves onto graphic descriptions of the sexual favors that each man had purchased the night before. Two hours have passed, and T. has not returned from the liquor store. June and Johnnie go to find T., and more importantly, their money. They slowly make their way to the liquor store, and they see that T. is being chased by Red (whom June describes as “white trash”). Red yells that T. must return his eighteen cents so he can buy a beer. T., however, insists that he never borrowed the money. Red raises his fists to hit T., his arms revealing many tatoos and IV drug track marks, vivid against his pale white skin. T.‘s grunting shows that he is in no mood to fight, so Red stops short of striking him. Johnnie’s friend Chuck reflects on how Red has changed in the past few weeks. “Red just found out he has AIDS, and ever since he’s been violent,” Chuck says. “I now break all my needles so that I too don’t get AIDS from drugs.” T. eventually returns the money to Red, so Johnnie makes his move, cornering T., and demanding his money. T. again begins his routine about not having the money, but Johnnie is sober and will not fall for it. In fact, after leaving he has made twelve cents. · Johnnie is the leader of his “posse,” a club of several dozen homeless people that has its own intricate rules and traditions. They used to meet at a clubhouse in a condemned home, but it burned down twice. All members of the club identify their alligiance by donning an American Heart Association button and a Zenith Data Systems painters’ cap. Among the club’s rules, foremost is the stipulation that “your word is your bond.” No one ever goes into anyone else’s bag of possessions without permission, and food and booze is generally shared. Club members enjoy citing their hero, Kenny Rogers, as best expressing the philosophy of surviving on the streets. Twice that day June and Johnnie sang “The Gambler,” in chorus. “You got to know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em, know when to walk away, and know when to run.” · Five hours later, Johnnie is still short of his $5.08 goal for the Thunderbird wine, so Chuck goes to the WaWa on the 3900 block of Walnut and “hustles” passers-by for the remaining money. Johnnie says that college students give the panhandlers the most money. On an average day, if one “hustles” from dawn to dusk, he can make nearly $35. “If it wasn’t for the college kids, I wouldn’t be alive,” Johnnie says. Chuck purchases the bottle of Thunderbird, and Johnnie and June join him in the park outside the Free Library to sip the wine and talk. June has many stories to share with the other two, since he has just been released from a prison term for justifiable homicide. Chuck adds that he is thinking of joining Red on his annual tour with the Grateful Dead. He says that he feels it is a great opportunity to sell t-shirts and make some money, but he worries that he could never match the amount Red brings in by selling sheets of acid. The trio is soon joined by Tyronne, and as the wine dulls their senses, the conversation quickly turns to sex. Tyronne brags, as his pronounced beer belly wobbles, that his work went well the night before — Tyronne is a gigolo. June explains that Tyronne is actually a “gigolo-want-to-be,” and that none of his “customers” actually pay him. Tyronne retorts that June is “just being negative” and is always looking for the disappointments in life. Night falls as they finish the wine, and Tyronne leaves. Johnnie, June and Chuck decide that it is time to go to the Bottom to get high. The three cross the intersection of 40th and Market, becoming excited about what the night holds in store. As they walk north, they come to an area called “Tricks City.” Prostitutes line the streets and hawk their wares. “They turn the trick and then buy the crack,” June says. “If the cap [vial] is five dollars, and they have four fifty, the whore will take you around the world for 50 cents.” The hookers have sex an average of thirty times a day for three days straight, and then they rest and don’t work for two, the men say. “I don’t want to get married,” one prostitute says. “This crack is my husband and this glass pipe is his dick.” The group chooses to purchase the night’s crack from a group they call the Jamaicans. When they see the Jamaicans’ familiar truck, they know that means turn right on the next street and look for a guy on the left-hand side of the road. They follow the instructions, and proceed to purchase a five-dollar crack vial each. “Five dollars a hit, for five minutes,” June says. “It’s a rich man’s high.” June explains that men should never smoke crack before sex, but women should. “If the man smokes crack, he can’t get it up,” June says. “But if the women does, she will love that fuck.” The three then walk to a crackhouse a block away, but choose not to go inside. They huddle in a tight circle and begin the familiar ritual. The three men bend over and insert the crack crystals into a glass pipe which is also filled with shavings from a brillo pad that act as a filters. A long metal stick called “the pusher” is used to insert the crack. After they light the pipe, they hold the smoke in their lungs for as long as possible. After they get high, June and Johnnie began to search for the evening’s sleeping location. After careful thought, they decide on the alcove in front of a church at 38th and Chestnut, where Johnnie had left a pillow and two pieces of carpeting the night before. As they lie down into their sleeping beds, they light up their pipes again, trying to get another hit; unfortunately, not enough remains to get high. They are not bothered by the bats which fly above their heads and the large cockroaches which crawl across their beds. After drifting to sleep, Johnnie suddenly wakes up and announces that he is “horny.” He wanders over to the Bottom again and finds a prostitute who will help him for free. “She was feeling good, I was feeling good,” Johnnie says. “So she sucked my dick.” The two return to their bedding location for the night, and sleep until dawn, then they return to the WaWa and the cycle repeats. Once again, Johnnie needs $5.08 to buy a half gallon of Thunderbird wine. . .
(04/25/91 9:00am)
The two students fired from University Television last semester for a lewd program used the same airwaves last night to publicly apologize for the broadcast. "We lost control, and we're sorry. We don't want it to be a litmus test of our character," Rothstein said. During the 45-minute talk show, which aired October 2, the two discussed oral sex in graphic detail, flashed pictures of nude models, mocked the dating of Jewish women and aired surprise telephone calls to women selected from The Freshman Record, all while drinking a bottle of tequila. The two said the alcohol was the "catalyst" for their behavior. "Richie and I don't drink that much, so when we did drink this large amount of alcohol, we got out of control," Fumo said. Last October, much of the attention over the program was focused on the phone calls made to women listed in the Record. The hosts had identified female students by first and last name and broadcast their room numbers just before they asked them on dates. Rothstein said he and Fumo believed that since the names were published in a directory they were "public domain" and fair game for comedy. The duo also apologized for a string of ethnic jokes, saying they had intended to refrain from using such humor, but were overtaken by a "being-on-TV-lets-be-funny attitude" once the live show began. As for the nude photographs and related discussions, Rothstein said they "tried to have a candid, mature discussion about oral sex, but it got out of control." During the eight-minute statement last night, the students appeared relaxed and spontaneous, often breaking into dialogue to illustrate their arguments. The apology also said the former producers have undertaken "serious self-evaluation" since October. The October incident sparked a probe and subsequent settlement by the Judicial Inquiry Officer. Last night's broadcast was reportedly part of the settlement agreed upon by the JIO and the hosts. Another provision of the settlement requires Rothstein and Fumo to show the apology at four campus locations Sunday -- at 6 p.m. in High Rise South 16th floor lounge, the McClelland Hall television lounge at 7 p.m., at 8 p.m. at the television lounge at Hill House, and at the King's Court/English House courtyard at 8:30 p.m. JIO Constance Goodman said last night the punishment includes additional sanctions, which she declined to specify, citing University confidentiality policies. Outrage over the program also prompted changes in UTV station policy. After last night's apology, Station Manager Kirk Marcolina appeared on the air to reiterate those changes. According to Marcolina, all program debuts must be monitored by station management. In addition, UTV has prohibited alcohol in its studios. "Again, I apologize to anyone who was offended by Pig Penn," Marcolina said. Staff writers Emily Culbertson and Roxanne Patel contributed to this story.
(04/25/91 9:00am)
The apology, which UTV Station Manager Kirk Marcolina said is part of the hosts' punishment for producing the show, will air at 9 p.m. While Judicial Inquiry Officer Constance Goodman said yesterday she has seen the taped apology, she did not say whether the taped apology was part of the punishment. President Sheldon Hackney called for an investigation of the 45-minute talk show days after the UTV executive committee fired hosts Richard Rothstein and Vincent Fumo. During the show, Rothstein and Fumo split a bottle of tequila, showed pictures of nude men and women and discussed oral sex in graphic detail. At one point in the show, the hosts called two freshman women, identifying them by their names and face book pictures. JIO Goodman imposed sanctions on the hosts last month after a four-month investigation. However, because of University confidentiality policies, Goodman cannot discuss the students' punishments. Marcolina said the taped apology elaborated on all of the points the hosts made in a written apology printed in The Daily Pennsylvanian. He added Goodman made no changes in the taped apology submitted to her. Earlier this month, Fumo and Rothstein submitted the letter to the DP apologizing for offending people and invading the privacy of the two freshman women. They also said they "underestimated the tolerance of the Penn community" and that their discussion and actions were inappropriate. Their letter contradicted earlier statements saying the show was meant as satire and questioning why putting the women on the air was harassment. After Fumo's and Rothstein's apology airs, UTV will broadcast the changes they have made in station policy after Pig Penn, which include barring alcohol on the set, requiring the production director to watch taping of new shows and giving the program director power to pull live shows from the air. Rothstein confirmed yesterday the apology would air tonight but would not comment further. Fumo changed his phone number to an unpublished one days after the show aired. UTV is available in all Superblock dormitories.
(04/22/91 9:00am)
A female Georgetown University student was lassoed by a Phi Delta Theta fraternity brother (ARCHIVE NOTE: NOT correct, not by a brother) Saturday night as she passed by the fraternity's 37th and Locust street, University Police said yesterday. According to University Police Lieutenant Susan Holmes, the incident, which was referred as a harassment case to Judicial Inquiry Officer Constance Goodman, occurred at 8:30 p.m. as the woman was walking with her boyfriend. Holmes added that police know the identity of the brother and has passed his name on to the JIO. Holmes would not release the name of the student, however. The harassment case was only one of an unusually high number of crime reports that kept University Police busy over Spring Fling weekend. From Thursday through yesterday, police responded to two simple assaults, a robbery, an attempted robbery, an auto accident and a possible break-in at President Sheldon Hackney's house as well as the harassment incident. According to Holmes, a male University student reported at 10:25 p.m. Thursday night that he was the victim of an attempted robbery on 40th and Spruce streets. The student told police that a man approached him and threatened to punch him in the face if he did not hand over his jacket. Holmes said the student used mace to defend himself and the assailant fled the scene. The student described his assailant as five foot, nine inches tall, weighing approximately 160 pounds with a neat appearance, dark moustache, and wearing dark jeans. In the first simple assault, a graduate fellow was assaulted while trying to break up a fight between three students on the Junior Balcony in the Quadrangle at 2:36 p.m. Saturday afternoon. Holmes said that there were no injuries reported and no arrests were made. She said the incident will probably be referred to the JIO. In the second assault case, Holmes said a woman reported that she was at a party early Sunday morning in the Sigma Phi Epsilon fraternity house at 4028 Walnut Street when a man grabbed her and swung her around. The woman responded by striking the man with a plastic bottle. At 3:13 a.m. Sunday two students were struck by an automobile at 40th and Spruce streets and taken to the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania by Philadelphia Fire Rescue, Holmes said. Holmes said police tried to get an update on the condition of the two students at 10:13 a.m. but Student Health reported that they had no information. Holmes speculated that this lack of information meant the two students were not admitted to the hospital. In the robbery, a University alumnus was robbed on 40th and Spruce streets at 3:57 a.m. yesterday morning. Holmes said the alumnus told police his wallet was taken and described his assailant as six feet tall and wearing black clothing, fleeing west on the 4000 block of Pine Street. Holmes also said a burglar alarm went off at 4:29 a.m. yesterday morning at President Hackney's house at 3812 Walnut Street. Holmes said the building was checked and the rear door was found open. She said a man, described to police as five foot eight, to five foot, ten inches tall and dressed in black clothing, was seen leaving the area. Holmes added that police do not know if anything was taken from the house.
(04/22/91 9:00am)
As Spring Fling's theme promised, the annual April festival was "wild" -- in more ways than one. Besides providing a wild time for students, it also exceeded its organizers' wildest dreams. Fling began Friday with some of the best weather the annual fete has seen in recent years, with many students garbed in shorts and spread out on blankets in the lower portion of the Quadrangle. But as the day wore on, Mother Nature seemed to remember that it was Spring Fling, which seems to perpetually signal an end to any warm, sunny weather. After reaching a high of nearly 60 degrees at 2 p.m. Friday, the thermometer plunged to just over 40 degrees as the headline Indigo Girls were wrapping up their show at Hill Field after 11 p.m. And Saturday was marked by intermittent showers and smaller crowds in the Quad. But the Friday night cold snap did little to turn away students from the Hill Field concert. Fling leaders said they were "very impressed" with the turnout for the show. Nearly 6000 students paid the $6 ticket price to see the three-band concert, which featured local reggae favorite Sons of Ace, guitarist Gerard McHugh and the headlining Georgia folk duo, Indigo Girls. Fling Co-director Todd Fruchterman, who addressed the crowd before the Indigo Girls took the stage, said the spectacle was impressive. "There were just thousands of people," he said. "It was just awesome." The Indigo Girls went on at about 9:30 p.m., with member Emily Saliers sporting a blue "PENN" sweatshirt. They then played for nearly 90 minutes. The show climaxed when the guitar duo performed their hit song "Closer to Fine," during which they frequently requested and received audience participation. The show ended after a three-song encore, including a spirited cover of the Grateful Dead song "Uncle John's Band." Fling leaders said the success of the outdoor concert proves that students will turn out for popular, well-planned events. "I would hope they have it there again next year," said Fling Co-director Rob Cohen. "There's a potential to generate an awful lot of money there, so maybe a bigger name could be gotten after next year." During each of the two days, revelers flocked to the Quad, where local vendors and student groups had set up booths to hawk their wares. While several vendors reported lower volume than from previous Flings, Chili's manager Rob Long said sales this year "were definitely up from past years." "I'm sure we did better this year than in the past," he said of the restaurant's fourth year operating a booth in the Quad. University performing arts groups continued the annual tradition of giving short performances to the assembled masses in the Quad, with 18 groups taking the stage that had been set up in the southeastern corner of Lower Quad. While the nasty weather on Saturday may have reduced the number of students who caroused in the courtyards of the freshman dormitory, it did little to deter from the groups' performances. Nearly 2000 students participated in the annual rendition of "The Red and the Blue" led by the Mask and Wig Club to end the daytime activities Saturday. "Everyone was really excited -- they were definitely into it," despite the weather, said Club member David Koff. "It was an incredible rush, as usual." On Saturday, the annual airband competition took place, and although originally scheduled for Hill Field, it was once again held in Irvine Auditorium due to inclement weather. Six lip-synch groups took the stage in the 40-minute performance, which closed with a laser-light show. Fling organizers said they were pleased that nearly 1,300 students turned out for the finale. "As always you'd like more people involved," said Co-director Denise Rubin. "Hopefully next year they'll have that." Fruchterman added that one of the bands may have caused some damage to the lighting equipment when senior Jeff Goldenberg threw a full bottle of beer behind the laser screen and "knocked out" two lights valued at about $3,000 each. Organizers immediately pulled Goldenberg off the stage and cancelled the last airband act in order to assess the damage.
(04/19/91 9:00am)
During the late spring and summer, students can be seen waking in the wee hours of the day, just to get an early look at the morning papers. But these people are not necessarily brainy intellectuals or current events junkies -- more likely, these students are the owners of a Rotisserie League Baseball franchise. Over a million baseball fans across the nation are getting to play both owner and manager of a team of major league baseball players through this fantasy game. Each Rotisserie League consists of "owners" whose players' statistics are compared to other teams in the league. And the game has attracted quite a following at the University ever since the game's inventors and original players wrote the classic book, Rotisserie League Baseball in 1984. College and Wharton sophomore Pat Matthews started playing the game in a league set up when he was in 8th grade. "Every baseball fan thinks he or she can manage a baseball team," he said. "They want to put together their own team and see how they do." · According to official rules, which are usually modified by each individual league, each team is made up of 23 major league players, including pitchers and position players. The most intense day of the Rotisserie season is draft day, usually held just before the real major league's opening day. In an effort to outsmart other team managers, the more avid participants spend hours researching each individual major league player and many minor leaguers, hoping to choose the players who will excel in the upcoming season. Some drafts resemble an auction, where each player is bid for by owners and each team has a salary cap set for each team. Other leagues use a straight drafting order, where managers pick players one after another. Because a good draft could mean the difference between a competitive team and an also-ran, draft-day preparation can become almost obsessive, with each owner bringing in dozens of crib sheets to help them with statistics of past performances, injury lists, scouting reports and even minor league rosters. "The draft took six hours, it was total chaos," said Engineering senior Mike Brose. "There were stacks of paper everywhere." "I didn't realize guys were so into it," added College alum Glen McLintock. "Some of them had been researching for months." Because everyone in the league usually knows who the Strawberrys, Clemenses, Cansecos and Goodens are, the key to a good team usually means finding that unknown player who becomes the rookie sensation of the season. Wharton junior Kevin Pollack said that in addition to studying newspapers, magazines and statistic books to prepare for the draft, he attends minor league games to get an edge in predicting who the hot rookies will be. Once players are selected, player statistics are usually compiled weekly by a "commissioner," and owners compare how they are doing with other teams in the league. During the course of the season, trades can be made as team managers look for the slightest statistical edge that will bring them over the top. Different leagues have different rules, and most use different categories of statistics. In general, categories for pitchers include games won, saves, earned run average and on occasion, hits and walks allowed per inning pitched. Position players are ranked by number of hits, home runs, runs batted-in, batting average and stolen bases. According to official rules, each week teams in a league are ranked from first to last, and in each category the first place team receives 10 points, the last place team 1. The franchise with the most total points at the end of the season wins. While reading the daily newspaper or watching the nightly newscast used to consist of looking only for their favorite team's score, managers often find themselves root, root, rooting against the home team and scurrying to find out how the second string catcher for the Atlanta Braves did last night. "I become glued to the tube every night, and eat up box scores every morning," said Pollack, adding that ESPN's "Baseball Tonight" and USA Today's sports section are the serious owner's bible. · Many who play the game, however, do it just for fun, but even the most laid-back fan can be found with three weeks worth of The National in their backpack. Brose, a first-year owner, said he joined a league because he loves baseball and Rotisserie gives him an excuse to follow it more closely. "I've always been a devoted fan, but Rotisserie gives me a reason to be fanatical," he said. But for the long-time baseball aficionado, starting up a team can be a traumatic experience. A common criticism of new owners is that they are forced to begin rooting for players they own instead of their favorite Major League teams. Sometimes, they will hope players on their favorite major league perform poorly so their Rotisserie team can move ahead. "It totally changes the way you look at the game and skews your allegiances," said Brose. "You start rooting for individual players and yelling at managers for bringing in a particular player." Involvement in a league can present real conflicts for owners, and everyone deals with it in a different way. Matthews said although it was difficult at first, he has learned to deal with owning a Rotisserie team and being a Mets fan, who he always wants to win. George said he generally roots for the Brewers, but Pollack said Rotisserie overides his favorite teams. "It's kind of annoying, but I have to root against the Mets at times," he said. Despite the "problems," most feel it is worth it. "I have a lot of fun with this," said Matthews. "I've also made some good friends." "It's a fun thing to do between a lot of friends and a good way to keep in touch," added Pollack. When the season is over, the winner is declared and those that follow Rotisserie tradition pour a bottle of Yoo-Hoo chocolate drink over the winner's head. Many leagues play for money, but Gordon warns against getting involved for financial reasons. "You may win prize money, but you will spend it on newspapers anyway," he said. In October you can finally rest after a long season, but don't get too lazy, it's never too early to start planning for next season. Draft day is less than six months away.
(04/11/91 9:00am)
In an overgrown, grassy plot with a partially gutted building at 31st and Spring Garden streets, over 50 adults and 65 children attended a groundbreaking ceremony for a new children's day care center yesterday morning. The kindergarten and pre-kindergarten children, wearing bright yellow hard hats and wielding plastic shovels, attempted to hollow a foundation for The Caring Center -- a new non-profit day care center which should begin operation next year. The children, many of whom belong to members of the University community, are currently attending the ISI Caring Center at 35th and Filbert streets. Last May, the center's owners, the Institute for Scientific Information, decided to permanently close the nine-year-old center, according to Marguerite Miller, associate editor of Almanac. Parents, who praise the center's staff and program, formed an organization to save the center. Miller, who has a two-year-old child in the center, said the high quality of child-care at the center could not be sacrificed. The University agreed to guarantee the loans for the construction of the center. "This was not just a converted church basement," Miller said of the ISI building which was constructed to be a day care center. "[The closing] was something we just couldn't see happening." The ceremony began with the children trooping off a school bus while waving signs which said "Don't bottle up our day care money." Some quietly sat on the grass while others quickly tested out their new shovels by digging up the nearest plot of ground. Ruth Drye, president of The Caring Center and general manager of Le Bus restaurant, said parents and administrators are hoping to negotiate to keep the the ISI location open until The Caring Center is ready for occupancy, which they hope will be by November. However, they are also looking to alternate locations if ISI closes the center before The Caring Center is opened. And although the University has guaranteed the loans and co-signed with the center, Drye said they are prepared to meet their financial responsibilities. "We have a very strong business plan," she said. "We will be paying our way." Before the official digging began yesterday, the children sang their rendition of "Heigh Ho" from the movie Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. "Heigh ho. Heigh ho. It's off to work we go. We dig, dig, dig, all day long. Heigh ho. Heigh ho," the children chorused. And while the children enjoyed being in the sunshine and playing with their shovels, their minds were far from the speeches and the new center. Their minds were on the refreshments -- apple juice, cake and cookies. When asked what she thought about the event, three year-old Ilana Millner, whose mother is founding director of ISI Caring Center, said, "I'm still hungry." Other children similarly declined to comment. "I don't wanna talk," said Danny Coleman, a student at The Caring Center for all but two months of his two years. "Why are they talking about my Caring Center?" he inquired. The new center will accomodate 145 children from ages six weeks to six years. The 14,000 square foot building will be two stories high and also contain an outdoor play area. Happy Fernandez, director of the Childcare and Family Policy Institute at Temple University, and Ralph Smith, executive director of Philadelphia Children's Network and a University professor, also spoke at the ceremony. Smith said his son thoroughly enjoyed going to the center. "They were probably the best two years of his life," Smith said. Media resident Jane Coleman, whose son Danny attends the center, said her children enjoy the center. "I think it's the staff -- they make it an excellent [center]," Coleman said. "My kids have always wanted to go."
