04.26.10 – A Monday

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As I announced last Friday, this will be the last week of the euneJeune daily. I hope you all enjoy my final five posts. Thanks for reading.


profusion [pruhfyoo-zhuhn] n. 1. abundance; abundant quantity 2. a great quantity or amount (often fol. by of) 3. lavish spending; extravagance


Marcus Aurelius (121), Muhammad (570), Charles Goodyear (1804), I. M. Pei (1915), Carol Burnett (1933), Duane Eddy (1938), Bobby Rydell (1942), Gary Wright (1943), Giancarlo Esposito (1958), Joan Chen (1961), Michael Damian (1963), Jet Li (1963), Kevin James (1965), Tionne “T-Boz” Watkins (1970), Jordana Brewster (1980), Channing Tatum (1980), Jessica Lynch (1983)


During the late 80s and early 90s, The Mann Center for the Performing Arts, an outdoor amphitheater in Philadelphia’s Fairmount Park, was the place to see live music for those of us who were old enough to drive but too young to go anywhere remotely cool. I mean, there’s only so many movies you can see. Twice.

Friday and Saturday night concerts at “The Mann” were major happenings. Most every teenager within a 25-mile radius went to every weekend show. Those without tickets, sat on “The Lawn,” a large empty area of grass and dirt to the right and up the hill from the stage or milled around in the section above the concert area where the vendors were stationed. There were no walls just a large chain link fence which obviously did nothing to obstruct sight or sound. It was like having an awful seat for the concert, but it was free.

Below is a seating chart of The Mann. The area in black is where all the youthful debauchery took place.

If Phish or Jimmy Buffett were taking the stage, the crowd outside the concert came close to rivaling those inside. But it didn’t really matter who was playing. Menudo could’ve been opening up New Kids on the Block and The Lawn would still be packed. The Mann was a place we could drink warm beer, try to talk girls into “taking a walk,” watch macho shitheads beat each other senseless and score some pretty awful weed. It was teenage revelry at its finest. Times were good.

For Philadelphia’s Finest, though, times sucked. Between the underage drinking, the blatant drug use and the constant outbreak of fisticuffs, the police definitely had their hands full. I’m sure more than one cop fantasized about opening fire on the crowd on several occasions but stopped short after failing to conjure a solid reason for blowing away a bunch of mindless juveniles, most in possession of nothing more menacing than a hacky sack. (I’m sure the unfortunate workers who had the unsavory task of cleaning up the morning after those nights had similar musings on how to stop us once and for all.) They tried they’re best, though, and I have to give those officers credit for showing the restraint they did.

Like most everything great, those nights at The Mann came to be no more. Barricades were put up to block off  The Lawn and most of the other areas we used to occupy. A zero tolerance for teenage antics was established. You either had tickets or you went home. And, in 1995, The Tweeter Center opened up across the river in Camden, NJ, stealing most of The Mann’s biggest yearly headliners. Forced to adjust, The Mann, originally meant for The Philadelphia Orchestra, returned to a more cultured schedule. A few years back, The Mann started bringing in some hipper acts like The Shins, Passion Pit and a reunited Pavement.

However, the party, as it had been, was over. But it was fun while it lasted.

Anybody out there have favorite memories of The Mann? Share them here.


We awaken in others the same attitude of mind we hold toward them. Elbert Hubbard


Of those shows at The Mann I actually bought a ticket for, I think the most memorable was a triple bill consisting of The Sugarcubes, New Order and Public Image Ltd. I didn’t know much about P.I.L. (as they’re called) except that the lead singer, John Lydon, was the frontman for The Sex Pistols. But he, and the rest of the band, put on one hell of a performance. Especially fantastic was “Rise.” Here’s the video for that song. At the beginning, notice the distinct lettering that appeared in all of the old MTV music videos. You know, back when they actually used to play them.


→ Here’s a news item I’m sure only about nine of you will care about: The Fratellis and Voxtrot both called it quits last week. On the same day. Weird.

→ Recently, I finished reading Christopher Moore’s Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal. I highly recommend it. Almost made me forget I don’t believe in God.

→ In another book related note, I’m halfway through The Audacity of Hope by Barack Obama. I don’t care what your political affiliations are, if you’ve no respect for the formidable genius of our President, I have no choice but to call you an impossible fool.

04.09.10 – A Friday

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vilify [viluh-fahy] v. 1. to speak ill of; defame; slander 2. Obsolete. to make vile


Charles Baudelaire (1821), Curly Lambeau (1898), J. William Fulbright (1905), Hugh Hefner (1926), Tom Lehrer (1928), Jim Fowler (1932), Carl Perkins (1932), Marty Krofft (1937), Peter Gammons (1945), Hal Ketchum (1953), Dennis Quaid (1954), Marc Jacobs (1963), Cynthia Nixon (1966), Jenna Jameson (1974), Albert Hammond, Jr. (1979), Keshia Knight Pulliam (1979), Jesse McCartney (1987)


Today, I’m only offering a quote to someone who I’m sure, despite his limp rhetoric, can’t help but to check my blog everyday.

We are keenly aware of the faults of our friends, but if they like us enough it doesn’t matter. Mignon McLaughlin


Sorry, folks, come back Monday for some more. Thanks for reading.


The man who doesn’t relax and hoot a few hoots voluntarily, now and then, is in great danger of hooting hoots and standing on his head for the edification of the pathologist and trained nurse, a little later on. Elbert Hubbard


I’ve mentioned this band on here before but, man, until the other day, I didn’t fully appreciate how amazing this song is. It’s “Airplanes” by Local Natives.


→ Holy shit, lady. Go away all ready, will you? Do we need further proof that the people in charge of television programming are smoking crack?

→ Some people claim punk is dead. That may or not be true, despite Green Day‘s best efforts to murder it. But the original punk rocker is dead. Rest in peace, brother.

→ Dear Conshohocken PA, maybe instead of hosting meaningless parades, instead you might do something about the potholes. How in the hell did that parade make its way down Fayette St., anyway?

09.22.09 – A Tuesday


cabal [kuhbal] n. 1. a small group of secret plotters, as against a government or person in authority 2. the plots and schemes of such a group; intrigue 3. a clique, as in artistic, literary, or theatrical circles v. 4. to form a cabal; intrigue; conspire; plot


Michael Faraday (1791), John Houseman (1902), Tommy Lasorda (1927), David Stern (1942), Toni Basil (1943), Nick Cave (1957), Johnette Napolitano (1957), Andrea Bocelli (1958), Joan Jett (1958), Neil Cavuto (1958), Scott Baio (1961), Bonnie Hunt (1961), Mystikal (1970)


“Some people like shitty TV, dude, there’s really all there is to it.”

Those words were spoken just last night by my brother Jeremy as I attempted to explain to him my positions on my choices in television programming.

People who I know have talked to me about my (some say confusing) obsession with the show “How I Met Your Mother.” One friend said, “I don’t know you just seem a little too complex to be liking that show.” Well, thanks for the kind words, but it’s kind of just the opposite. Life is complex. I don’t need my entertainment to further complicate it.

For instance, take shows like “Lost” and “Heroes.” I’m sure both are finely produced, wonderfully executed television. I’m also aware both are widely considered culturally relevant. (Whatever that means.) I watched “Lost” for the first two seasons, but grew tired of constantly having to keep track of what the hell was going on and worrying about what I might miss if I didn’t get a chance to see that week’s episode.

Because, for me, television should be something I can just turn on and spend an hour or more drifting around carelessly. I don’t need nightly appointments to keep. I just want to watch some TV.

A show like “How I Met Your Mother” doesn’t require the committment of “Lost” or “Heroes.” I could miss six straight weeks of episodes, turn the current episode on, and not miss a beat. I don’t need any further backstory than the weekly narrating of Josh Radnor.

And the bottom line, is that, yes, I’ve always felt there is enough drama out there in the real world. I don’t need the fictional characters in my television set to further remind me of the fact Earth is overpopulated with awful people. I’ve no problem with scenarios in which the boy gets the girl, the good guys actually do win and everyone rides off happily into the sunset.

I’m sorry if that makes me less of a person, or at least less interesting, in some of your eyes. But I’m unafraid to admit when, given a choice, I’d rather be laughing than anything else.

As a rule, I refuse to get wrapped up in other peoples’ lives. So getting wrapped up in the lives of the characters on TV, real or fictional, is simply out of the question. Unless those characters happened to be named Ted Mosby or Barney Stinson. Then I’m ready to watch/listen.

Simply put, all you people can watch all the “relevant” crap you want so that you can hold your own during one of your work happy hours or endless conversations with your like-minded friends.

Me? I’ll be right here. Watching garbage television shows, ignorantly content.


When a man sends you an impudent letter, sit right down and give it back to him with interest ten times compounded, and then throw both letters in the wastebasket.Elbert Hubbard


Elliott Smith was one of the most unique and talented singer-songwriters that ever stepped in front of a microphone. His music covered such a wide-range of emotions: sorrow, anger, elation, heartbreak, joy. He had dozens of quality songs, but I’m pretty sure the one that kind of exemplifies everything I dig about his music is “Pretty (Ugly Before).”


→ For those of you who enjoy utilizing the social networking site Facebook, you may have noticed it’s been acting all kinds of whack as of late. Well, it’s not your computer’s fault. Yesterday, Facebook admitted it’s having some “site glitches.” Please be patient as this problem will be taken care of as quickly as humanly possible.

→ Walter Breuning celebrated his birthday yesterday. So what? Lots of people did. Difference with Mr. Breuning? His cake had 113 candles on it. The Montana resident is considered the world’s oldest man. I’m 35. I want to live a little bit longer because, as a late starter in life, I still feel like my best accomplishments are ahead of me. But 113-years old? I don’t think I want to see that number.

→ I remember too much. People have always noticed that about me and told me how lucky I was. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Yes, having a great memory is advantageous sitting in some bar playing Quizzo. But when it comes to the bad things that’ve happened in life, the ability to remember every detail of the majority of those days can be a pretty distracting and depressing state of mind. But, as much as it sucks sometimes, at least I’m not one of the four people diagnosed with super-autobiographical memory. I don’t know how each one of them lives inside their brain everyday.