Speaking of urinals -- and we were -- Philadelphia Inquirer architecture critic (and blogger) Inga Saffron is all over the subject lately, with two articles in the last week or so: "City Plumbers Union Says No Way to No-flush Urinals," on March 19, and "Take a Stand on No-flush Urinals: Anyone?, from March 26.

Saffron's work is usually, um, cleaner than that, but she makes some great points.

You know the winter has lasted too long when your little sister, who lives well south of the Mason-Dixon line, sends you the link to an online album featuring more than a dozen photos of her precious little daughter, and all you can think when you look at the pictures of this beautiful child is, "Wow. They have really great weather down there."

Did you catch "World News Tonight" earlier this evening? They showed a spot about the 16 "toddler" (five to seven months old) pandas growing up in Wolong, China, that can't be missed.

Sort of makes you wish you could have been Mark Litke, the reporter on the assignment, for just a day.

The map of American Telephone & Telegraph Co.'s original area codes, dating from 1947 and published on the web by LincMad, is so cute. Quaint even.

Look at California: Just three area codes!

And Florida had only one.

Overheard, earlier this morning, in the Fishtown neighborhood of Philadelphia, a one-sided exchange between two boys, about 10 years old:

First boy: -- spit --

First boy: -- spit --

Second boy: Quit spittin' like a dirt bag, would ya'?!

Two condominium developments, both within spitting range -- because people here do that, a lot -- of City Hall, a combined 106 stories, 58 and 48 levels, respectively and respectfully, and I think I did the math right, and the "artist's conceptions," not available at the Philadelphia Inquirer's web site, look terrific.

I'm excited about this, but as I've said before, for the authoritative voice, it's over to you, Inga.

Overheard earlier this evening on the Market-Frankford El, eastbound, around 13th Street.

Twenty-something woman (carrying a stained, as in food-encrusted, blue dinner plate, for who knows what reason): "And I mean, like, oh my God, he has, like, soooo much gray hair. He looks like he's, like, 45! And he's only, like, what, like, 30?! It's, like, disgusting!"

Gee whiz, why does this man keep on living, and taking up space? I mean, like, the nerve of him!

Earlier this evening I happened to pass by a television set on which was playing "E.T.," also known, maybe better known for all I know or care, as "Entertainment Tonight," and they were teasing an upcoming segment with this: "SJP's Beauty Secret!"

"SJP," I gathered from the photograph on display, referred to Sarah Jessica Parker.

I have no doubt Parker has a beauty secret or two.

I'm just trying to figure out why she's keeping them from herself.

Both CNN and WCAU-TV, Philadelphia's NBC affiliate, saw fit earlier today to send me e-mail news alerts drawing my attention to the fact that one Kirby Puckett had passed away rather suddenly.

As a former boss of mine used to like to say, "Who dat?"

It turns out Mr. Puckett, much to my edification, was a baseball player of considerable renown and accomplishment.

Thank you, Google.

May I just say that I'm really not getting this whole talking-on-the-cell-phone-while-standing-at-a-urinal thing? Because I'm really not.

I think by now you know what I think of flip flops, and I know I can't describe here, in words appropriate for a family blog, quite what I thought about seeing a 22-something Philadelphian on the Market-Frankford Line this evening wearing said plastic footwear while the ambient temperature was about 37 degrees.

Simone Weichselbaum, who, among others, one has to assume, covers the crime beat for the Philadelphia Daily News, has a great job. She gets to write leads like this one, taken from "Cops Nab Shoeless Suspect Fleeing Airport" in today's paper:

Airport authorities chased a barefoot man down a Philadelphia terminal yesterday morning after they saw a cocaine-type powder pouring out of his clothes, police said.

The substance turned out to be foot powder, said Sgt. Jim Pauley.

Though why a shoeless man was spilling foot powder from elsewhere on his body was not made clear.

During the space of less than an hour at noon-time today, I saw three men, presumably homeless, lying on the sidewalk: the first near 16th Street and the Benjamin Franklin Parkway; the second on 17th Street near Chestnut; and the third on 18th Street at Sansom.

The first man had covered himself completely with a blanket and was being left alone.

As I approached the second, who was on his side, facing away from the street and abutting the building, I saw two twenty-somethings, a man and a woman, who thought it would be funny, just downright hilarious, to leave by his side, without his seeing, a single penny.

And as I neared the third a middle-aged man coming from the opposite direction looked down at him and gave him a great big sarcastic, "Hey, you made it! Good to see ya'!" Har, har, har.

Did that make you feel big, you jerk?

Dan Savage, editor of Seattle's The Stranger, has a decent op-ed in today's New York Times, "Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Ex-Gay Cowboys," from which the following pull quote has been pulled:

Once a man can really pass as ex-gay -- once he's got some Dockers, an expired gym membership and a bad haircut -- he's supposed to become, in effect, an ex-gay missionary, reaching out to the hostile gay tribes in such inhospitable places as Chelsea and West Hollywood.

Plays to stereotypes, sure, but it's still pretty funny.

Without even checking the calendar, let alone my memory, I know it must be Thursday night, a Thursday night of the every-other variety. I know this because my desk overlooks the street on which we place our trash, every Thursday night, and our trash and recyclables, every other Thursday night, on which, at about this time of night, though usually later, once in a while even early on a Friday morning, I can hear someone going through the recyclables. His purpose is to pick out the aluminum cans, of which lately there are usually very few around here, for their cash value, which, when you consider that Pennsylvania doesn't collect deposits on cans, is pretty remarkable when you think about it.

It�s difficult not to question the motives of some of the groups and people most actively seeking to convince America�s zoos to relocate their elephants, but on the whole, it�s even more difficult to question their arguments when it comes to this particular species. And so it�s good news that the Bronx Zoo, according to an article in today�s New York Times, is making plans to phase out its exhibit, though with a fairly long and vaguely defined time horizon for doing so.

It seems there's a difference of opinion among Philadelphia film critics regarding Helen Hunt's performance in the newly released feature, A Good Woman.

Carrie Rickey, writing for the Philadelphia Inquirer in "Updated Wilde Trifle Tasty, If not Nutritious," says, "Hunt, whose flutelike voice makes music of [Oscar] Wilde's dialogue . . . ."

Meanwhile, Sam Adams in the City Paper writes, "Delivering every line in a cracked waver, Helen Hunt seems less like a woman with a shady past than a throat cold."

I've never been a fan of Hunt, to say the least, particularly of her annoyingly "I'm going for cloying" tone of voice. Besides, I'm on record as despising the sound of a flute, and, to top it off, I've seen two and that's two too many, previews of this wretched-looking picture, so I'm taking Adams's side on this one.

Allow me to share a bit from my day, most of which was spent in and around Old City, Philadelphia.

A thirty-something man approached me, near the corner of 2nd and Market Streets, with that look I've seen before, one of a person looking for some assistance, possibly just for directions. What the heck, I thought. I'm in a decent mood.

But no, this was to be more than that.

He pulled some papers out of his jacket pocket, and then began his well-rehearsed spiel:

"Sir, I just spent ten years in state prison and . . . "

Whoa! Hold on there a second, pal. If you're looking to establish trust, maybe gain a smidge of my confidence, you're going to need a better opening line.

I proceeded to the Ritz at the Bourse to catch the first showing of Capote, which was excellent, by the way.

Yet I have to ask, if there are but 12 or 15 of us in the theater, or more accurately, the screening room, why do you, and I'm talking to you, buddy, feel it necessary to choose the seat directly behind me, only to make matters worse by banging your knees against my back and then tapping your heels against the tile floor?

From Derek Boyko, director of media services for the Philadelphia Eagles, quoted in "Douglas Questions McNabb's Leadership Skills," by Marc Narducci in today's Philadelphia Inquirer, and speaking of Eagles "team ambassador," Hugh Douglas:

Hugh Douglas goes on the radio a lot and defends our players and team and cleans up a lot of the misnomers that are out there.

"Misnomers"?

A malapropism if ever I heard one.

I caught Roberta Smith's review of the new exhibition, "Cezanne in Provence," in Friday's New York Times ("Finding a Muse in Mountains and Chestnut Trees").

It sounds like a terrific show, one I would enjoy if not for the fact that it's on display at the National Gallery of Art, a first-class institution, of course, but one at which taking in such a show promises too much discomfort, annoyance, and pain, to say nothing of too many Washingtonians.

Or was that already understood?

A most insufferable people, they. And I know, because I used to be one myself.

(See also, "Sublimely at Odds," by Blake Gopnik, the Washington Post, January 29.)

[Post-publication addendum: Reader P.G.C., of Washington's Virginia suburbs, writes: "I had the crazy idea of trying to go opening day (Sunday) with my wife, only to open the Wash Post and see a big front page article in the Arts section on the exhibit. Combine that with a rainy day in D.C., and so much for that thought. I knew it was going to be jammed."]

The Associated Press reports (by way of CNN.com) from Cambridge, England:

A [Fitzwilliam Museum] visitor shattered three Qing dynasty Chinese vases when he tripped on his shoelace, stumbled down a stairway and brought the vases crashing to the floor, officials said Monday. [Hyperlink added.] [...]

Asked about the porcelain vases, Margaret Greeves, the museum's assistant director, said: "They are in very, very small pieces, but we are determined to put them back together."

The museum declined to say what the vases were worth.

Sounds like something I would do. The falling and breaking, I mean. Not the whole declining-to-assign-a-value thing.

You know, I wasn't crazy about the college at which I ended up, but at least I gave the place more than two days before I decided I just had to transfer or I'd die, which, in the end, I didn't. I neither transferred nor died.

I know someone who's not going to be crazy to read the lead graph of this article -- "Hangin' With Sly," by Michael Klein -- in today's Philadelphia Inquirer, about Sylvester Stallone's work this week filming, in Philadelphia, the latest installment of the Rocky series:

It's a clear, chilly, noir midnight on bombed-out Jasper Street in Kensington. An El train chugs against the sky two blocks away. To the right, peeking above a roof, One Liberty Place shines brightly, a million miles away.

"Bombed-out"?

All in the eyes of the beholder, or, in this case, the property owner.

Looks like somebody picked the wrong day to quit smoking.

The Los Angeles Times reports: "A sheriff's SWAT team ended a 10-hour bank siege early today by freeing the final hostage when the gunman sent her to the front door to retrieve a pack of cigarettes."

There's nothing like a nicotine fit to mess up a good hostage-taking.

Rebecca W. Rimel, wait, no, the Pew Charitable Trusts, has abandoned its dead-on-arrival effort to rename 30th Street Station, Philadelphia, in honor of Benjamin Franklin, the Inquirer reports in an article by Inga Saffron.

Thank God that's over. I couldn't believe the strong feelings expressed about this -- I was ambivalent at best, and more accurately, rather uninterested -- and so let us never speak of, nor write to a local paper about, this subject again. Geesh.

A recent report from the Associated Press by Pierre-Antoine Souchard, published in the Philadelphia Inquirer under the headline, "Vandal Fined for Chipping Duchamp Work," relays the news that Pierre Pinoncelli, a 77-year-old French man, has been convicted (three-month suspended sentence and a $245,490 fine, plus $17,616 for repairs) for attacking with a hammer a porcelain urinal that is the centerpiece of a work by Dadaist Marcel Duchamp on display at the Pompidou Center in Paris.

Souchard reports:

Pinoncelli, a former salesman who calls himself a participant in the creative process as conceived by Duchamp, said that his hammer attack was an artistic endeavor. During questioning, he had told police his attack was a work of performance art and said then it might have pleased the artists of Dada.

And more:

The January urinal attack was not the first for Pinoncelli. He urinated on the piece during a 1993 exhibition in Nimes in southern France.

And still more:

Pinoncelli's actions are not limited to the Dada movement or works of art. He cut off his own finger as an expression of solidarity with Colombian politician Ingrid Betancourt, held hostage by leftist guerrillas since 2002.

So . . . An artist, or insane?

I�m going with insane.

Stephen Starr, the Philadelphia �ber-restaurateur, is preparing to open outposts of two of his most successful concepts -- Morimoto and Buddakan -- in Manhattan, reports the New York Times in �With 420 New Seats to Fill, Restaurateur Banks on Buzz,� by Florence Fabrikant.

I can�t help but take a bit of offense at this line of Fabrikant�s: �Even in Philadelphia Mr. Starr�s restaurants have often been boldly fashioned by major designers like David Rockwell, Philippe Starck and Karim Rashid.�

Because, well, you know, everything is just so ugly and backwater down here.

I know teachers are largely underpaid and that some of them need to make a little money on the side, but it would seem painfully obvious that if your day job involves the instruction of third-graders, peddling pot from your home, as Sheralin Felix of Jonesboro, Ga., has been accused, isn�t going to fly with the board of education, to say nothing of the PTA.

[Post-publication addendum (January 26): A follow-up report from the Atlanta Journal-Constitution says, "Clayton Teacher Says She Didn't Know Marijuana in House."

The Philadelphia Inquirer reports �Street�s Budget Boosts Funding� (by Michael Currie Schaffer and Marcia Gelbart).

Well, okay, but is SEPTA meanwhile cutting back bus service on the Q.T.?

The bus I ride each weekday morning will see a dramatic reduction in service beginning February 12. For example, instead of 24 buses heading south through my neighborhood between 5:00 a.m. and 9:30 a.m., there will be only 17, a reduction of almost 30 percent. That�s according to a revised scheduled available on the bus this morning.

I must have missed reading about these cuts after SEPTA and its unions, along with government leaders in Philadelphia and Harrisburg, congratulated themselves for keeping last fall�s strike so brief.

New York Mayor Michael R. Bloomberg is seeking yet another increase in cigarette taxes, by 50 cents a pack this time, which would push the price of a pack of some brands to more than eight dollars in that city. Holy smokes!

It�s all but official now: The residential real-estate building boom in Center City Philadelphia has jumped the shark, that on word comb-over king Donald Trump is planning a 45-story condominium building on the Delaware River waterfront.

[Post-publication addendum (January 26): See also, �Boom Was Booming,� by Inga Saffron at Skyline Online.]

I haven�t seen the show yet, but I will, I promise, because it�s ending soon, on February 5 to be exact: Jacob van Ruisdael: Dutch Master of Landscape, at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

A quick clip from Thursday�s Philadelphia Inquirer:

To commemorate the 50th anniversary of the wedding of East Falls [Philadelphia] native Grace Kelly to Prince Rainier of Monaco, the Philadelphia Museum of Art will exhibit her silk and lace bridal gown. Designed by Academy Award winner Helen Rose and made under top-secret conditions by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios, the dress was donated to the museum shortly after the April 19, 1956, ceremony. It will be on display April 1 through May 21. For conservation reasons, the dress can only be placed on view for short periods of time, and was last shown in 1997-98.

I�m not much interested in wedding dresses, but if it�s Kelly�s, well, I�ll at least go take a look.

Lacrosse coaches gathering, from around the country, here in Philadelphia?

And I had to find out for myself, just this afternoon, the last day of their gathering?

So much eye black in one place. Incredible.

When the guy down the street from my house charges just a buck fifty for a pretty good slice of pizza, what nerve does the Tasting Baking Co., a local institution, have charging $1.19 for a Honey Bun, especially since half the time one buys said bun, it tastes, not tasty, but completely stale?

In Dan Gross�s column in today�s Philadelphia Daily News, �You Don�t See This on Radio,� I caught this brief item:

Being selected to host the Oscars isn�t the only honor being bestowed upon �Daily Show� host Jon Stewart. On Jan. 21 he�ll receive an award from the National Soccer Coaches Association of America during its conference at the [Philadelphia] Convention Center. Stewart played soccer at the College of William and Mary.

Jon Stewart . . . in full soccer kit . . . possibly even wearing eye black.

The mind reels. The heart flutters.

[Post-publication addendum (January 24): See also, �Jon Stewart is Outstanding in What Field?� by Marc Narducci, the Philadelphia Inquirer, January 22, 2006.]

A quick word to the fine folks (God, how I hate that word!) at National Public Radio, who produce so much great programming, political and otherwise, but to the so-many hosts of so many programs, including tonight, those connected with American Routes, allow me to say this: The fact that some or certain music is obscure, or not widely known, does not make said music great, wonderful, interesting, or even slightly worthy or my, of our, attention. Sometimes the right message is as simple as this: Turn it off!

Just because when a major American city, in this case, Philadelphia, is going through major, and positive, growing pains, it needs an architecture and planning critic as astute and wise as the Philadelphia Inquirer�s Inga Saffron, whose work is always excellent, as exemplified in her Friday piece, �Outfitting a Ruin,� about the colonization, if that�s the word, by Urban Outfitters Inc., of a terrific space at the old Navy Yard here.

Read Saffron�s piece. It�s typically outstanding, even for Saffron.

Just asking . . . Who throws out his Christmas tree on December 26th?

I never knew such a thing occurred until I saw it for myself in my Philadelphia neighborhood, while walking my dog, Mildred, at 6:45 a.m. on Monday morning.

My parents kept their tree up until January 6, at least, that date marking both the Solemnity of the Epiphany and my maternal grandmother�s birthday.

Seems to have been reasonable to me, though I rarely have a tree myself.

Go there because I said so, and because, well, who doesn�t love pandas?

(Note: Some photos at the linked site seem, at least upon my quick glances at such stuff, to present adult pandas in adult situations. Viewer discretion advised.)

One of my nephews, five-year-old T.B., at dinner last week gave me a trophy.

Actually, it�s a paper cut-out of a trophy on which he wrote:

#1

UncLE

jIm

That�s a keeper, don�t you think?

This morning I caught Marty Moss-Coane�s excellent program Radio Times on WHYY Radio (Philadelphia, 90.9 FM), the second hour of which was devoted to discussing and, what the heck, let�s just say so, promoting, Double Down, this season�s holiday offering from Philadelphia�s 1812 Productions, featuring Scott Greer and Tony Braithwaite.

I haven�t seen Double Down, but Green and Braithwaite were hilarious on Moss-Coane�s program. And Marty did quite well herself playing a nurse in a skit the three performed on air.

I hear from WHYY promos this evening that the station will rebroadcast this segment at 11:00 p.m. tonight.

You should make a point of catching the program, and if you can, seeing the show at the Adrienne Theatre, and maybe buying me a ticket.

(I was just kidding about that ticket part.)

John Lennon.

He was killed in New York 25 years ago today.

Yeah, we get it. We know. Enough already.

Whenever I think I can no longer be shocked, especially by young children, it happens again.

And so, again, I�m shocked.

As you know, I live in the Fishtown neighborhood of Philadelphia, a traditionally Irish and Polish working-class area just northeast of Center City that is currently making the transition -- so they tell me -- to the next hot, hip, and trendy spot in the nation�s fifth-largest city.

Perhaps. I remain to be convinced, especially when I walk about nearby streets and am forced to interact with what can be called, charitably at best, the local color, and what I�m more inclined to characterize more simply as the neighborhood�s white trash.

Case in point, with an eye toward the aforementioned kids: There�s a little boy who scampers about who I take to be around eight years old. He�s a cute kid; reasonably well dressed and groomed, by which I mean, and if you lived around here you would catch my drift quickly, he looks clean, and that�s pretty good, all things considered.

I last saw him Sunday evening when I took my dog Mildred out for a post-dinner walk, during which the following conversation ensued:

Local Boy: Hey, mister, you know what I�m doing?

Grouchy Old Man [That�s me.]: Looks like you�re stupidly skateboarding in the middle of the street.

Local Boy: No, I�m waiting for a girl. And when she comes by I�m going to get a piece of her.

Grouchy Old Man: That�s not nice! You know boys don�t hit girls.

Local Boy: I�m not going to hit her. I�m going to [expletive deleted] her!

Grouchy Old Man: Whoa! Well, that�s not nice either. Don�t even think of it! And don�t ever say anything like that again!

Eight years old!

Well, he was having none of my remonstrations, about which I cannot call myself surprised.

But then, get this, he, said �local boy,� threw a ball at me, a ball that hit Mildred!

It wasn�t much of a ball, just a soft rubber ball, but he did it on purpose, and maliciously, and I know this because it�s the second time in a month this little urchin threw something at me. The last time it was a portion of a smashed pumpkin he and a few other pieces of crap broke in front of a neighbor�s house on the night before Halloween.

The incident -- the ball throwing, not the pumpkin-piece tossing -- set me off. Not insanely, I assure you. I was just disgusted. I turned around and marched toward him and glared at him and scowled and shouted, �If you ever throw anything at my dog again, if you as much look at her the wrong way, you�ll be in more trouble than you�ve ever heard of in your life!�

Scared him?

Oh yeah.

Scared me?

That too.

Knowing this crazy neighborhood, this mannerless and misbegotten child is probably being raised by an unemployed nut who�s been on a bender since the Eagles lost. To Denver. Not exactly the type of dad, or mom, who will thank me for keeping the stupid kid in line.

I�ve got to watch my back.

Oh, boy, is this going to be good!

I�m talking about Christmas in Fishtown.

If you saw how my neighbors dressed up their houses for Halloween and then for Thanksgiving, you would be as eager as I am to see how far above and beyond the call of duty -- to say nothing of good taste -- they will go this month!

Early signs (see the south side of Norris St., east of Frankford Ave.) are promising.

You knew it was coming. It was only a matter of time. Finally, it�s here: the six-dollar chocolate bar.

I overheard this snippet of conversation a few months ago while waiting for a table at a modest little eatery in the southernmost reaches of Center City.

Middle-aged Woman (after stumbling loudly toward the bar): �Oh my God! Thank God! My foot�s been killing me!� [At this point she�s using both hands to sort of pluck, I guess is the word, at her lowest appendage on, I believe, the right side of her body.] �I thought I was getting a blister under my toe, but it was just an aspirin! I had an aspirin stuck under my toe!�

Now, of course, this is all very weird, and altogether too weird to overhear, and it only gets weirder when I inform you that said middle-aged woman was wearing not shoes, but sandals, a type of footwear designed to allow, and preferred by many (though assuredly not me) because they purportedly allow, one�s feet to breathe, for lack of a better word to describe something so inherently vile. And yet still said aspirin tablet stuck to her toe, a travesty that suggests to me that her feet, aspirating within the generally liberating reach of the sandals, were entirely too, well, wet for the occasion.

All of Philadelphia, or, to be honest, but a mere sliver of the vast populace here, is all aquiver and astir about the latest cover story published by PW, the �alternative� weekly paper (Wednesdays) formerly, though generally still, known as the Philadelphia Weekly, �Die, Hipster, Die.�

They�re practically buzzing about it! (And, may I say, there�s no one so tiresome as an aficionado of marijuana who thinks he has discovered the great secrets of the universe therein and just cannot stop talking about it? Snoozzzze.)

Frankly, I don�t know what all the fuss is about.

I found the piece, by Neil Ferguson, to be tame, gentle, and altogether too fearful of offending hipsters genuine and fake, the distinction to me entirely unclear, those who are, well, PW core readers, and far too averse to putting these poseurs in their place, would there were anyone who cared.

A brief item in today�s Philadelphia Inquirer today reports that an unidentified Mount Laurel, N.J. woman was scammed out of $2,500 by her potential new roommate: �The victim, who lives on Augusta Circle, told police Friday that she had received a $4,000 check as a security deposit from someone she met on the Internet. The prospective roommate then asked the woman to forward about $2,500 to a Nigerian address to pay for airfare to the United States, police said. After sending the money to Nigeria, the woman discovered the $4,000 check was bogus, police said.�

Sounds like Mrs. Sese Seko has struck again.

Gee whiz, what�s with the geography problems -- particularly those related to South and Southeast Asia -- among youngish Philadelphians these days?

In a setting completely unrelated to the Bangladesh-Turkey confusion about which I blogged here last August, earlier today I caught this bit of a conversation between two twenty-something men:

Young Man No. 1: I don�t know if I want to commit to it. The project is in Sri Lanka.

Young Man No. 2: Sri Lanka? Where�s that?

Young Man No. 1: It�s near Malaysia and Indonesia.

Well, sort of near Malaysia and Indonesia, I suppose, if you consider 15 hundred miles, give or take a few hundred, to be �near.�

Where have we gone wrong?

This strikes me as big, and surprising, news: 734 Schuylkill Ave., Philadelphia, on the western edge of Center City, just below the South Street Bridge, in its latest incarnation a vocational education center, will be rehabbed into more than 200 condominium units by developer Sam Switzenbaum, working in conjunction with architect Robert Venturi of Venturi, Scott Brown & Associates, that according to an article by Henry J. Holcomb in today�s Philadelphia Inquirer, �Heavyweight to Go Condo.�

Over to you, Inga.

There are plenty of stories in today�s Philadelphia Inquirer and Daily News about the departure of Philadelphia Eagles wide receiver Terrell Owens, but my favorite is �Few Fans, No Sit-Ups at T.O.�s Masion,� by the Inquirer�s Keith Pompey, reporting from Moorestown, N.J., in which we hear from Owens�s next-door neighbor, Marybeth Taras.

Taras says, with apparent conviction, �I�m ready to have a new neighbor. I'm ready to have a family live next door.� She added, �I think the team is better off without him. I think it is time for him to go.�

Only later in the article does Taras deliver her punch line, wondering aloud whether Owens can sell quickly his home in Morristown. Pompey reports: ��We would like for him to do something with the lawn,� Taras said, while looking at Owens�[s] bald lawn. �Do you think he�ll be able to sell the house with the lawn looking like that?��

By the way, Owens is asking $4.4 million for his spread.

Oh, please, is there any need for any further discussion about Terrell Owens? (See, among many other articles, �Owens� Days as an Eagle are Over,� by Jeff McLane, Philadelphia Inquirer.) Good riddance and, yeah, good luck, pal.

I think it�s time for some new contact lenses. While carousing about the web today, a headline caught my eye,. As I saw the news item it appeared, �At Least 22 Dead After Ind., Ky. Tomato.� Wow, I thought, vegetables can be so nasty! Oh, wait, it was a tornado. Never mind. Seriously, though, it sounds awful.

I can say honestly it never crossed my mind: that actors Arnold Schwarzenegger and Sylvester Stallone have had plastic surgery, perhaps more than a bit of it, as has Tom Cruise, according to Dr. Cap Lesesne in the Boston Globe.

I know someone, and I won�t say who he is, who, if reading the New York Times article to which I linked in the post below, �An Exquisite Path to an Elusive Past,� must have been very confused by this sentence contained therein:

The ordinarily unflappable staff at Versailles was nonplussed.

Now, of course, we all know that nonplussed (or its variant, nonplused) means �at a loss as to what to think, say, or do; bewildered,� but my friend persistently and mistakenly maintained, all proof, documentation, and linguistic evidence aside, that the word nonplussed meant something along the lines of unaffected, blas�, or nonchalant, perhaps even unflappable.

And so, to him, my former friend, that particular sentence must have come across as something like:

The ordinarily unflappable staff at Versailles was unflapped.

As critical as all that sounds, I know I�m not perfect. There are certain words I encounter that repeatedly send me to the dictionary, no matter how many times I encounter them. Protean, for example. That�s a word my brain simply won�t take in.

At least I know I enough not to try to use the word in a sentence. I just keep my ignorance -- my protean stupidity -- to myself.

For situations like this, should you encounter them, allow me to recommend I Always Look Up the Word �Egregious,� by Mawell Nurnberg, a work promoted, accurately, as �A vocabulary book for people who don�t need one.�

Overheard this morning at Robin�s Bookstore, an independent bookseller on South 13th Street in Center City Philadelphia, part of a conversation between two employees:

Employee No. 1: �In the e-mail he was telling me all about Bangladesh. Sounded awful.�

Employee No. 2: �Bangladesh isn�t so bad.�

Employee No. 1: �Well I told him not to go to Turkey.�

Employee No. 2: �Bangladesh and Turkey aren�t the same thing.�

Employee No. 1: �They�re not?�

Mr. McNally, please call your office. Mr. McNally.

Enough, though, with Bangladesh. How about we talk about Thailand?

I ask because it�s not only nearby, nearby Bangladesh I mean, but also because the New York Times today has an interesting piece, �An Exquisite Path to an Elusive Past,� by Holland Carter (Bonus points for the cool name, Holland!), about a new and apparently fascinating exhibit at the Peabody Essex Museum, Salem, Mass., �The Kingdom of Siam: The Art of Central Thailand, 1350-1800� (through October 16), that I wish I could see.

Come on, do it.

Turn on the television set.

I rarely do so myself, but when comedian Kathy Griffin gets her own show on Bravo, in the shape and form of "Kathy Griffin: My Life on the D List," I'm all over it, and, I'm happy to say, enjoying every minute of it.

Can I just say, though?

I really, really want to be one of Kathy's gays. I'm good-looking enough. I'm funny enough. She merely needs my number.

Go ahead, share with her.

A brief, and worthless, New York moment from my past: I saw Griffin perform live. She's just incredible. If you can seize the opportunity to take her in -- Even if you must pay for the ticket yourself, and you know she wouldn't do that if she didn't have to. -- just do it, just really right away do it.

Playing on the tradition of the "Overheard" series intermittently published here, allow me to share a few things "seen" in Philadelphia just today and today only, presented in chronological order:

At 10th and Market Streets: The skinniest heroin addict ever, shirtless and looking very ribby, asking for spare change so he could "get something to eat." Gee whiz, pal, forget the change. Let me buy you an Egg McMuffin and force feed it to you.

At 12th and Walnut Streets: A 60-something woman passed out at a table in front of Cosi.

At 8th and Lombard Streets: About 100 women, all of them over the age of 60, exiting the Society Hill Playhouse following the first Sunday matinee performance of "Menopause: The Musical," blue hair -- Even purple! And you know what I mean. -- abounding.

At 8th and South Streets: Two of the scariest black drag queens ever, wearing the nastiest sunglasses imaginable, loitering in front of the state store, which location is closed on Sundays, much to their irritation. ("State store" is Philadelphia-ese for liquor store.)

At 10th and Spruce Streets: A woman with -- and this sight was a first for me -- four piercings on her back, just below the neck. I didn't even know they did that, and I can't for the life of me imagine how it's accomplished.

God, I love this town.

Oh, and by the way, twice today I was complimented by cashiers for my "beautiful signature," the same phrase used both times.

Overheard earlier this week at the KFC/Taco Bell on South Street, Philadelphia, a conversation between a twentyish man at one table and a twenty-something woman at another:

Twentyish Man: "Yo, you need some green?"

Twenty-something Woman: "What?"

Twentyish Man: "You need green?"

Twenty-something Woman: "Money? Do I need cash?"

Twentyish Man: "No, girl, green."

Twenty-something Woman: "Huh?"

Twentyish Man: "Green. Green, girl."

Twenty-something Woman: "What are you talking about?"

Twentyish Man: "I got some awesome green. And X. Coke. Blow."

Twenty-something Woman: "Uh, no. I think I'm okay."

I didn't catch on any more quickly than she did, but then again, I don't expect to encounter drug dealers when I'm eating a pair of Double-Decker Tacos.

Ernesta Drinker Ballard, Philadelphia: socialite, debutante, horticulturalist, author, teacher, preservationist, businesswoman, skateboarding advocate, mother, wife, feminist, 1920-2005.

Some obituaries really are worth reading. In addition to the link already provided (for ��One of the great citizens� of Philadelphia,� by Rusty Pray, Philadelphia Inquirer, August 12), see �Ernesta Ballard, a 'Treasure,� Dies,� by John F. Morrison, and �A Philadelphia Icon Passes,� both in the Philadelphia Daily News.

[Note: This item is cross-posted at The Rittenhouse Review.]

This one is kind of sad.

Overheard, about two weeks ago, at the main branch of the Free Library of Philadelphia, located in the city's Logan Square area, a conversation between two rather weatherbeaten middle-aged men washing and shaving in the men's room:

Man No. 1: "You know, this is it for us."

Man No. 2: "What is?"

Man No. 1: "This is it. We're gonna be living like this -- like pigeons -- for the rest of our lives."

They're not ladies who lunch, they're women who network.

At the Lilly Pulitzer shop, in Ardmore.

I suppose that's how's it's done on Philadelphia's Main Line.