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Few things sit so near to my heart as Mike the Headless Chicken.
The State of the World Steve Weinik 12.21.04 A title as hefty as this calls for a statement of such mass, such significance, such careful and thoughtful determination that… to hell with it. We're fucked.
In other news, there was an election in the United States and a fuckload of people died in hellishly intense and brutal ways by the hand of their fellow man. These stories are related in more than a holistic sense. While many of the reported deaths were in Iraq, top awards in the category of the utter hopelessness of mankind goes to that slightly less ethnically diverse bordered political unit known as the Sudan. But don't worry, people of the Sudan, the UN is lurching along at a snails pace, to see to it that in a decade or so, when the powers that be decide to formally use the all powerful word, “genocide” to describe nightmarish atrocities such as yours, the world community will actually make an attempt to “do something” about it. So no worries. And anyway, when you're dead you can hold your breath for an eternity. When I was a kid, there was a Mennonite farmers market in my neighborhood. I don't remember the building where the market actually was, but I remember that it was next to a building that looked like a cross between a town meeting hall and a church, (pic and article).. The interior of the farmers market had that dusty gray color of a subway station. It was a dark, wide open space and if I remember right, there were no windows. It was a strange place, a huge room full of Mennonites in their head to toe black and white modesty. Every Monday and Wednesday from 8-3 or so they trucked into to the city to sell farm fresh eggs, homemade brooms, shoofly pie and whoopie cakes. It was a loud place that smelled of raw meat, cheese and straw. As a kid, I loved it. In the southeast corner of the farmer's market, right next to the beautifully crafted wicker-wear and broom basket was a butcher counter. If the day was right, behind the glass and lying on a bed of ice, were whole bunnies, dead, raw and hairless. They had no eyes. As a kid, as much as I loved live bunnies, fluffy and warm, the cold dead bunnies always looked awfully tasty. We never got one, my mom complained that boning and cooking a rabbit was too thorny for the results. Bunny is a pungent meat that carries a taste and texture that prepared improperly easily becomes offensive or invisible. I've had bunny stew a few times since then, but I've never really tasted bunnymeat. the soul of philly nightlife Steve Weinik 11.27.04 Sometimes I feel like one of those people who find themselves unwittingly ordering a turkey sandwich from a grimy corner deli on Thanksgiving night. Not a turkey sandwich for Thanksgiving, but in spite of it. Getting home, unwrapping the oversize white paper, hungry not thinking, clicking on the television and tuning it to your favorite syndicated primetime rerun. Reaching down, taking the sandwich in your hand, maybe grabbing a couple chips, sour cream and onion – with the other hand along the way. Hearing in the back of your consciousness a commercial advertising the holidays and remembering that it's Thursday and that this Thursday is Thanksgiving. Opening your mouth, looking down and realizing that you've got a turkey sandwich in front of you. Lifting the cold sandwich, a slimy piece of shredded iceberg lettuce poking out and brushing against the back of your hand, leaving a spot of mayonnaise where it touches. Your mind putting together thanksgiving, turkey, thanksgiving, turkey, realizing that's why the smiling greasy man that works the evening shift at the deli asked you if you wanted cranberry sauce with that. It's come to this? No it hasn't. Sometimes I feel like that, but I had a nice Thanksgiving this year. I always have nice warm thanksgiving meals surrounded by my nice warm extended family. I am not, nor have I ever been one of those people. I have walked home alone in the new fallen snow on Christmas Eve. But Thanksgiving has always been different. Thanksgiving. But that difference is not what I am here to discuss. Today's words are on that spot of loneliness. It is rumination on that disassociated feeling. It's the flicker of a black and white television inside a parking attendant's kiosk at a hotel garage at 3AM. And it's your own realization that you are the one standing alone observing the flickering little box from a windswept and desolate city street. The feeling is that paper bag that blows between your legs or the stray cat that glances suspiciously at you as it darts through the wind, across the trash-strewn alleyway that sits to the left of the hotel garage. It's the guy who drives alone in his truck all night making notes as to which city streetlights are burnt out and need to be replaced. And finally, and most miserably of all, it's that late-night crowd of desperate alcoholics that sit scattered across lonely barstools inside the cocktail lounge of a 24 hour midtown diner. That is the crowd that draws that brutal line between a bar that's a dive and one that has crashed, burned and decided to make a life of it. What does this have to do with anything? What the hell am I putting this up here for? I have absolutely no idea. But if I need to invent some excuse, let me start by saying that there is a certain romance to this whole thing. I have loved this sense of being a living-breathing ghost for as long as I can remember and probably even longer than that. What is it to be a living-breathing ghost? It's becoming invisible, being completely dead to the world other than in a purely mechanical sense. You work giving change to people for their superfluous snackfoods and that is the sum of your impact on the earth. You do not speak, you do not influence, you hold no power, you exercise no control and you have no impact on the lives of anyone or anything… except for fellow ghosts. I love ghosts and I love their romance because of their inability to assume any form of pretense. I love them because it is so very hard for them to sin. I love that the rest of the world's indiscretions are their acts of mercy. If I were to abandon a baby on a stoop, it would be horribly wrong. But if a bottom scuttling, shadow dancing living-breathing ghost were to abandon their child, no matter what their reasons or excuses the perverse action becomes excusable, forgivable or even selfless. It's in the bible. I love them because in the act of sacrificing a life to complete and total failure they become true martyrs. Or at least all this is the romance of it. It's the same sort of appeal as the movie Blade Runner. At least in an atmospherically dark, neon, wintry, neo-noir sense. But more on this loneliness later. I've got dinner to make. I've got reasons to live and endless pretenses to construct. Election fraud in The United States?
In the past, election fraud has been a local affair. Old fraud intimidated voters and stuffed ballot boxes. It relied on local corruption. Geographic isolation restricted its scope and its influence. Where fraud did become both widespread and systematic, Civil Rights leaders fought tirelessly to flush the system clean, giving a voice to every voter. Today, the potential for fraud exists at a much broader and a much more sinister level. With malicious intent, the potential exists for national elections to be swung one way or another with little effort. This fraud doesn't intimidate and it isn't violent. It leaves no record and no paper trail. This fraud doesn't make a sound - and this fraud may already be more than mere potential. It may very well already be an active reality perpetrated by the hand of a small group of anti-American extremists. As you read on, I ask that you do so with an open mind. Remember that our tradition may be of democracy, but it has been and reamians to be an imperfect democracy. We are if anything, a work in progress. Remember that election fraud is nothing new. It is endemic to the process. Remember that what you read is not far fetched. Election fraud is by no means outside the norm. It is an unfortunate reality to the system and it must be resisted by every honorable citizen. As you read on, approach each article and each bit of evidence with an open mind. I will try to provide only “valid” sources and refuse to link to any poorly referenced or researched article. Read with an open mind and remember, I am not a conspiracy theorist. Remember, election fraud is endemic to our system. It is the job of the citizenry, the job of you and me to make sure that those who wish to usurp the will of the people are unable obstructed in their plans. The following set of links are incomplete. This will in time become a permanent fixture to this site and will undergo a process of refinement and quality control. Thanks for your support. -Steve Weinik Voting machine companies and information: http://www.ecotalk.org/VotingMachineCompanies.htm MSNBC http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/6210240/ Fraud in Georgia: http://www.populist.com/03.20.dispatches.html Fraud by the numbers http://ustogether.org/Florida_Election.htm exit polls: http://slate.msn.com/id/2109053/ Alternate explanation of exit-poll numbers http://www.thehill.com/morris/110404.aspx 2000 fraud http://www.scoop.co.nz/mason/stories/HL0310/S00211.htm hacked? http://www.commondreams.org/headlines04/1106-30.htm Philadelphia Rising Steve Weinik 10/29/04
High above Philadelphia's 30th street station, construction workers are preparing for the “capping-off” ceremony of Cesar Pelli's Cira Center. At 436 feet from the street, workers will top off what will that day stand as a hulking 727,000 foot metal skeleton. But why is this interesting? Let's get to why this midget skyscraper exciting for the city of Philadelphia. But first off, a little context. This is Philadelphia. A little less than 100 miles to our north sits New York City, otherwise known as the capital of the planet. New York, the most diverse, dynamic, wealthy, cosmopolitan, awe-inspiring megalopolis in the history of humankind has traditionally made Philly a little… uncomfortable. Imagine that you're a 12-year-old boy in the locker room at school. You're skinny, you're weak; you're clumsy, poor, dirty and ugly. On top of that, you're not particularly well endowed. In fact in your and in the eyes of many of your classmates, you're the skinniest, weakest, clumsiest, poorest, dirtiest, ugliest and most pitifully endowed boy in your entire class… AND your locker is right next to Brett's, the tallest, strongest, smartest and most attractive kid in the entire school. So of course, Philly is the loser, while strapping young Brett represents the city of New York. But over the last decade or so, the city has seen a change. At a truly Philadelphian pace of just over 300 years, the city has finally reached puberty. Cafes have been popping up like a wicked case of acne. Towers and revitalized warehouses full of overpriced condos sprout up like all kinds of new hair. Neighborhoods have been reborn. Streetlights are a little brighter and parks are a little greener. Even the tap water seems a little clearer in the city these days. Geography:
But what does this have to do with a 436 skyscraper at 30th and Market? To put it simply, building a skyscraper at 30th street broadens Philadelphia's downtown a full 7 blocks to the west. It extends the skyline across the Schuylkill river and serves as an anchor for an emerging neighborhood. The University of Pennsylvania is full of smart people with great ideas. This is especially true when it comes to making money, and this is precisely the why they recently purchased 24 acres of soon-to-be downtown waterfront property from the United States Post Office. Over the next decade or so, the University will convert a desolate urban expanse of postal warehouses, garages and waterfront parking lots into a vibrant new city neighborhood. Bordered on the north by the aforementioned Cira Center and to the south by a series of parks and athletic fields near the South street bridge, the neighborhood will firmly plant center city Philadelphia on both sides of the Schuylkill river. In a generation, The University of Pennsylvania may very well find itself in the thick of center city. The Schuylkill river will cease to But getting back to New York. Eh… nevermind. Philly's just fine. What We Have Done Now by Steve Weinik 10/26/04 *An editorial note. If this article appears vague, directionless, abrupt, contradictory or incoherent that is my intention.
 I'm feeling that I should say something important. Something relevant, something of significance. But I' m tired and my throat is dry. I've got a lot to say… but am not feeling the self-importance to put it forth. I've got severe election fatigue and want the whole thing to be over. Yesterday I saw Bill Clinton, John Kerry, Ed Rendell and a host of Philly area notables. Last week I saw Michael Moore and the parents of a friend whose son died in Iraq. Without denying the seriousness and the sheer gravity of the whole thing, the nature of all this activity keeps my senses dull and my wits duller. As the campaign reaches a crescendo, I feel nothing but fear and revulsion. All of these feelings and anxieties brew insideof me and come out in short, inarticulate bursts. I feel overstimulated and underintellectualified. Let me provide an articulon to these unwords. My underintellectualizaton has caused a backlash into an anti-intellectualism overall. Let me explain further with recognized vocabulary and the underpinnings of normalized grammar. (end refrain) I have a strong anti-intellectual kick and that kick has been prodding me uncomfortably in an assumed forward trajectory. By anti-intellectual I don't mean CNN anti-intellectual and I don't mean George W. Bush anti-intellectual. I mean I'd rather compare and contrast the beauty of an autumn maple with that of an autumn birch than present yet another critical analysis of the North American electoral process. It means that at this point I would rather smash my head repeatedly into a brick wall than debate politics. Right now I don't give a shit about discourse of any kind, nor do I care who thinks they're smart, or why they think that they are so. To keep these feelings both fair and legitimate, I'll mention that my intellectual apathy includes my own opinions. I have reverted to the only conclusion that I have ever come to. No one is right and no one is ever going to be right about anything. All these words and all these opinions are infused with meaning, but only with the meaning that our minds create. It is the illusion itself that grants its own legitimacy. And eventually, the torture that is the presidential campaign breaks all but the most ignorant of observers. The meaning that we ascribe to all things human, achieves nothing except to serve as filler to a larger and more complicated illusion. Put more simply, none of us are even close to being right, nor do we have the capacity to even pretend to be. Why do I feel the authority to make these baseless accusations? What do I gain by feeding the Grand Illusion? I don't know. But if she's going to write what she writes and do what she does, the only counterstrike of equal and opposite semantic strength is the ascertain that Ann Coulter is indeed, a stupid cunt. She wrote the book How to Talk to a Liberal. Lots of people read it. In response I'd love to write the book How to talk to Ann Coulter, the Stupid Cunt. Anyway, Thank God for freedom of speech. Which brings me to my main point. During these anti-intellectual kicks I am attracted above all to absurdity. That's also my conclusion. Next week. Something more overtly funny... If Bush wins all bets are off. The Great Curse of... Boston? by Steve Weinik 10/21/04 True to my commitment to keep this site But since the only people that really give a crap about genocide are historians, tree-hugging hippies, limp wrested UN types or the unfortunate ethnic group that happens to be faced with complete and total annihilation, I'll stick to a good old discussion of sports. As a sports fan, let me be the first to extend my congratulations to the wonderful city of Boston. What you, or rather what your team has achieved is amazing. Coming back from a 3 game deficit to win a best of 7 series is an outright miracle. Maybe that fabled Boston curse is finally broken. As a fan, let me once again extend my congratulations to the great city of Boston. As a Philadelphian however, I would like to say, fuck you and fuck your "curse." Why do I say this? Why does your city's exultation sit in my throat like a bitter lump of regurgitated cheez-whiz? Well let's take a look at the numbers. In all major league sports, Baseball, Basketball, Football and Hockey, Boston has a total of 29 championships, Philadelphia, 13. To get a bit more specific, let's take a look at the real American pastime, football. Over the past 3 seasons the New England Patriots have won the Superbowl twice. While the Eagles have made it to the NFC championship in those same 3 years, they have failed appear in, win or even earn the opportunity to appear in and lose the Superbowl. In fact the last time the Eagles won the Superbowl was... wait, they've never won the Superbowl. Ever. They did go once 25 years ago, but they lost badly. So it goes in Philadelphia. Going back to the 1960's Philadelphia actually played the spoiler for Boston. Was this an example of Philly landing on the winning side of the great Boston curse? No, not really, because playing the spoiler meant that while the Celtics won the NBA championship in 1960, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 68 and 69, the Sixers denied them a clean sweep of the decade by beating them in 1967. Go Philly! So here in Philadelphia, even in victory we're completely overshadowed by extenuating circumstances. Ask a basketball fan who won in '67 and 9 out of 10 will probably still say Boston. Things evened out in the 80's with the Celtics winning only 3x as many NBA championships as Philadelphia. In fact, that 1983 some 21 years ago was the last time Philly won a damn thing. Even Smarty Jones, Philly's Great Equestrian hope choked in his race for the Triple Crown. But maybe things look up in the world of hockey. The Flyers have had one promising season after another for more than 30 years. Time after time the good old Flyers have made some outstanding runs at the Stanley Cup. Unfortunately those runs usually lead straight into a brick wall, off a ravine, into a river, or they just get hit so hard they suffer multiple concussions. I hate to say it, but the Flyers are the Dick Cheney of hockey. They scare the hell out of you, but they're heart is weak as a kittens. Whether they're being swept in the finals, collapsing in semi-finals, or just getting knocked off in the first rounds of the playoffs, Flyers history is marked with some of the greatest underachieving and most frustrating teams assembled in NHL history. They did manage to scrape together some championships back in 74 and 75, but that's it. This remarkable team, this great hockey town has exactly 2 championship seasons. The Bruins on the other hand have 5. And finally we go on to the Red Sox. A look at their record shows that since the accursed year of 1918, they've appeared in the World Series 5 times, (not including this year). Five Series and five undoubtedly gut wrenching series losses. Philadelphia baseball teams, the Athletics and the Phillies, combine for 7 appearances and 4 championships since 1918. So maybe the Red Sox do have a touch of a curse. It sure is a good thing they've had all those other championships in the meantime to ease the pain. Since 1918, Boston has had parades in: 1929, 1939, 1941, 1957, 1959, 1960, 1961, 1962, 1963, 1964, 1965, 1966, 1968, 1969, 1970, 1972, 1974, 1976, 1981, 1984, 1986, 2002 and 2004. That's more than twice Philly's total. In fact Boston had a parade this year - just a few months ago. Philly hasn't had any damn parade for more than 2 decades. Boston is a cursed city? What the hell ever. |
Mike the Headless Chicken
Given Mike’s well demonstrated and wholly insurmountable physical ineptitude, it's fair to ask why he continues to hold relevance in today's hectic world. In a country where 21.5 million chickens are slaughtered daily, Mike is a true standout. I defy anyone out there to name just 1 of the 8 billion chickens slaughtered in this country in 2004 alone. Now consider this. Mike didn’t die last year, he died 59 years ago. The endurance of Mike the headless cock is truly amazing. After all, what other chicken enjoys his own 
So why does Mike enjoy this grand legacy? The answer delves far deeper into the American psyche than the mere absence of a head. Mike the decapitated, brainless chicken lived the American Dream more thoroughly and more effectively than hundreds of millions of legitimate, human American citizens ever did or ever will. For this, he deserves our respect and admiration. 
So here at the end of the year, it's time for a review. The story of the year was, quite obviously the discovery of the 
be a barrier between neighborhoods, becoming instead a downtown park and recreation area. This is a great time to be in this city. The revitalization or actually the initial vitalization of the west bank of the Schuylkill is just one piece in a much larger whole. Ambitious projects like this one are happening all over town. In a generation, the city of Philadelphia will have a whole new face and character. And that is why it is such an exciting time to be in this city. 
going, here is the second update in as many days. In order to keep a sense of context and in the interest of placing this string of words into a larger historical framework, I've decided to write about the news of the day. Today's headlines all go on about last night's Boston Red Sox game 7 victory in New York. Being a history major I know that in time, the significance of Boston's miraculous 3 games to none come from behind sweep of the New York Yankees will fade into obscurity, eventually being replaced by page 12 bylines that go something like: