All Over The Internet

I am now a contributor to Philadelphia Magazine's new web site - The Philly Post. And I am also putting together nightly commentaries for WPIX in New York and other Tribune TV stations across the country. As part of the commentaries, I also blog on the WPIX site.

All that means that I will be posting even less here.

I am going to keep this site going to post my father's writings. I will post every once and awhile. I will also be posting links to my latest work at Philly Mag and WPIX.

On that topic - click here for my latest commentary on honoring the nation's war dead. You know, the brave men and women in Irq and Afghanistan who the media forgot.

And click here for my article on Saving Local News. It is on life support, but there is still time.

Snow Job

We are officially in the February ratings period. You probably could tell from all of the promotional spots that ran during the Grammys telling you to watch the 11 O'clock news to get a "butt like Beyonce."

Even though stations can now see the "overnight ratings" everyday, making the "sweeps periods" far less important than they used to be, TV stations still work themselves into a frenzy.

Like legendary stories of soldiers who didn't get word that the war ended, they keep fighting in an imaginary battle. Their arsenal? Sweeps pieces about fad diets that don't work, reports that are "investigative" in name only and anything at all they can use to scare you about your safety or the safety of your children.

And snow.

Research shows the number one reason people watch local news is for the weather. The mention of the word "snow" is a big ratings grabber.

Show producers, news managers and tease writers will hound meteorologists for any sign of snow. The TV weather people are not above reproach in this matter. Snow means more face time and another chance to lead the newscast. And so they scour the satellite images and maps for snow like an addict searching the crevices of the sofa for a lost fix.

Let me help you decipher the way these weather people will fool you into thinking snow might be on the way.

If they say, "Snow in the forecast?" or any similar question, like "Snow for your weekend?", the answer to either question could also easily be no. Similarly if they say, "And we are looking at a chance of snow in the forecast," that could mean a whole host of things, like there is a 30 percent chance of snow in the Allentown five days from now.

If they say "Snow in our area," that almost always means it is going to snow in the Poconos and nowhere else.

Also, do not be fooled by scenes of snow from Chicago, Minnesota, the Sierra Nevada's and elsewhere, accompanied with the question "Is this coming our way?" Again, the answer you might find out is "no" and even if it was headed our way, it probably will be significantly weaker.

And then there is my favorite term - "A Wintry Mix." That usually means they can't find any snow whatsoever in the precipitation and "wintry mix" still sounds snow-like.

You just need to be an informed news consumer. If there was really snow in the forecast, believe me, the meteorologists will not hide it with questions, qualifiers of euphemisms. They will blare it from the rooftops or, as was famously done in Philadelphia, write a crawl to run in Prime Time proclaiming "The Storm of The Century."

That crawl ran on the last night of the February ratings during Law and Order. The storm was five days away. Things, like storm intensity and track, can easily change. And it did change. We now all remember the "Storm of the Century" as the "Blown Forecast of The Century."

And that's the problem. A short term gain in ratings costs a long term drop in credibility. So the irony is that this "do anything for ratings" desperation we see in three to thirty second promotional bursts during our favorite shows is undermining its own intent. The quick spike in the ratings is in reality a measure of the people who were fooled into watching and will eventually catch on and stop watching.

This is one of the main reasons local TV ratings are plummeting. Viewers are savvier and are on to the tricks.

Here is a tip. When you see an ad that says, "Snow in the forecast," go to Weather.Com, The Weather Channel site. There is no hype, no tricks, no egos, just the forecast - for your zip code. Then you can see the 30 percent chance of flurries in the Poconos for yourself and go to bed early if you want.

As for the butt like Beyonce, unless you are going to go back and change your own gene pool or spend thousands on cosmetic surgery, it is probably not going to happen.

Let's Start Calling It Martin Luther King Drive

On this day, as we celebrate the 81st birthday of Martin Luther King , can we finally all agree to call West River drive by its official name - Martin Luther King Drive?

It has been five years, after all.

Mayor John Street proposed the name change on King's Birthday in 2005 and it was quickly approved by the Fairmount Park Commission. Philadelphia then became the last major city to name a street after the civil rights leader.


When East River Drive was renamed, it didn't take this long for Philadelphians to get on the Kelly Drive bandwagon. It was in 1985, ten days after John B. Kelly collapsed and died of a heart attack while jogging, that Mayor Wilson Goode suggested the name change. The Olympic gold medal winner, city councilman and brother of Grace Kelly was beloved in this city and Kelly Drive caught on quickly.

Of course, that is the exception to the rule. In 1989 South Philadelphia Congressman Tom Foglietta finally won in his efforts to have Delaware Avenue renamed as Columbus Avenue. Philadelphia City Council passed the resolution unanimously. It wasn't such a slam dunk with the public however. Twenty years later most Philadelphians, most TV newscasters and even many street signs still call it Delaware Avenue.

The stretch of Route One that runs from the Schuylkill Expressway to 63rd Street is officially called City Avenue, but everyone calls it City Line because it is the border line between West Philly and Montgomery County. Business and political leaders in both Philadelphia and Lower Merion, who have worked hard to make the corridor safer and more attractive, have tried to re-educate people to the street's real name. An enormous "City Avenue" in lights greets motorists onto the street from the Schuylkill or the Drives. "City Avenue," they reason, is more inviting and gets rid of some bad images of the corridor.

I still call it City Line.

There are other changes that Philadelphians refuse to accept. To me it is still The Franklin Institute and I will never call it "The Franklin," unless Mint soon follows. I went to The Franklin Institute as a child and I want to keep those memories intact with the name.

We do love hold onto names in Philadelphia, especially the ones we create. It is The Schuylkill, The Blue Route, The Vet, The Linc, Down The Shore and Center City that makes us who we are.

But it is time to let West River Drive go. We can start by changing the exit sign on the Schuylkill Expressway. History demands that respect.

As of today, I will start calling the road I travel often, both on bike and by car, Martin Luther King Drive. I do hope you'll join me.

A refusal to do so can be seen as a greater refusal to acknowledge the contributions to our culture of a great man. And we are better than that.

On Loneliness

It was my Father's old leather bound poem book that was the catalyst for this blog. Over the last few months I have posted many of his works, some dating back 80 years.


As I read the poems and writings in his book, I wish so much that he was alive today so that I could ask him questions about his thoughts and feelings.


None of the writings stirred more curiosity in me than the following entry that I transcribe verbatim from the yellowed pages of my father's book.




(The last time I saw Mrs. Campbell was in Washington. She was very weary of life, having carried 76 years of it on here rounded shoulders. Her existence centered upon a lingering hope that someday she might return to her England, land of her birth, her early happiness and later grief. She asked me to write a poem about loneliness, which I did.)

Slowly and softly and silently passing,
Moving the same old way.
Moments are dragging and ceaselessly stacking
And forming another day.
When things are so sad is there wonder I'm glad
To call back days that passed.
In that long, long ago...so far away,
The days that went so fast?

Dusty and gloomy and everything stuffy...
Everything seems to be.
And I remember when people were gentle
And lovely and kind to me.
But it hurts so much when i even touch
Those folded souvenirs,
I want to forget...but if I forget
What is there left...but years.

Time is so awkward and hopelessly clumsy
When such as this must be,
Joy is but bygone, the future is empty
And what is there left for me?
Forbid this despair and let me forebear,
Stifle my anguished cry,
Moments are ages; days are like aeons...
How long, oh Lord, and why?

Robert Mendte.

...oOo...

The best gate of a man is not to be born; the second best is to die early....

Silenus.

Happy Birthday Steven...and Thank You

When I was working at CBS3 I made it a personal mission to make certain that we did not forget the men and women fighting and dieing for this country in Iraq and Afghanistan.

As part of that mission, I interviewed many Mom's and Dad's who lost a son or a daughter to a sniper, IED, an ambush or a fire fight.

Their pain is deep and eternal.

For many it is difficult to go on. Holidays go unrecognized because of the pain. Other dates become monumentally important - the birthday - enlistment day - the day your child died.

One of the women I had the great honor of meeting and befriending is Bobbie McGowan from Newark, Delaware. A school teacher and proud mother of her daughter Michaela. In March of 2005, her only son Steven was taken by an explosive device buried in a dirt road outside of Ramadi, Iraq.

Bobbie's apartment in Newark is now a shrine to Steven. His uniform and boots are encased in an armoire. Pictures of Steven are everywhere.

And then there are the Beanie Babies. Steven handed out so many Beanie Babies to the Iraqi children that he became known as "The Beanie Baby Soldier." To this day, the tiny stuffed animals are distributed in his name in Iraq.

Today is Steven's Birthday.

People who love Bobbie reach out to her on this day. One of those people is Jason Hagan. He served with Steven in Iraq and was there when he died. Jason retrieved the body.

He also made a battlefield promise with Steven that if anything happened to either one of them, the survivor would make certain the other's Mom was being cared for.

For the last four years, Steven has kept that promise. Jason lives in California, but still dotes on Bobbie from afar.

Today Jason sent Bobbie a digital flower. This is the note she wrote:

October 11, 2009

Jason Hagan sent me a beautiful picture of a rose this morning. It looks like a perfect pink rose. I remembered Bette Midler had a song titled “The Rose,” so I looked up the lyrics. Some really touched me again.

It’s the heart afraid of breaking
that never learns to dance.
It’s the dream afraid of waking
that never takes the chance.
It’s the one who won’t be taken,
who cannot seem to give,
and the soul afraid of dyin’
that never learns to live.

When the night has been too lonely
and the road has been too long...
just remember in the winter
far beneath the winter snows
lies the seed that with the {Son’s} love
in the spring becomes the rose.

Our road has been lonely and long, but as the change in the lyrics I made reflects, I believe God’s love will end our winter and we will have our spring and our roses when we hold our children once again.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, STEVE!

Love, Da Momma

Please remember Steven McGowan on this day and all of the men and women who have given their lives in service to country.

Remember that there are still men and women serving this country and in harm's way overseas.

And remember the Mothers, Fathers, Wives, Husbands and children who have also sacrificed for this country. They have been wounded by war in a way we can't comprehend.

To learn more about Steven McGowan and his legacy - click here.

To donate Beanie Babies in Steven's name - click here.

If you would like to send a message to Bobbie, either leave a comment here or send me an email at LarryMendte@Gmail.Com. I will make certain she gets it.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

E-A-G-L-E-S, EAGLES!

Before they learn to spell their own name, most children in Philadelphia are able to spell the word Eagles. They hear it spelled constantly. In a mall, at a sporting event, at almost any public gathering, one male will not be able to contain himself and start spelling “E-A” and by the time he gets to “G” dozens even hundreds of others will join in for “L-E-S, EAGLES!”

“You get it walking down the street even at first Holy Communion.” Jim Gallagher says proudly, “It’s everywhere.” Jim Gallagher is a legend. He was the public relations guy for the Philadelphia Eagles from 1949-1995 and has championship rings to prove it. He vaguely remembers when the Eagles chant started.

“It was in the early 80’s at the vet. One section would do it and then others would start. It wasn’t a very organized thing.” Jim remembers a game against Dallas in 1984 when the Cowboy’s PR guy noticed the chant throughout the stadium, “He asked me, ‘when did this start?’ I told him, ‘I think just now.”

And boy did it take off. At anytime, almost anywhere, someone, anyone might yell “E!” and that is the cue for all Philadelphians to join in the tribal chanting ritual. When the Eagles are playing well, like in the 2005-2006 season when they went to the Super Bowl, there are no social or geographic barriers to the ritual. It is a Philadelphia war cry.

But there are times when the song is just inappropriate. For those who have Eagles chant tourettes and know no boundaries let me draw a few for you

- You shouldn’t start an Eagles Chant in a nursing home without giving some prior written notice. If you are watching the Eagles game with the residents of the nursing home, than it’s okay.

- You shouldn’t start an Eagles chant in a confessional, unless of course you are confessing the shock killing of a resident in the nursing home and you have to re-enact the moment.

- You shouldn’t start and Eagles chant at the funeral for the guy you accidentally killed in the nursing home, unless of course he is being buried in an Eagles hat and coat and then it is more than appropriate.

- By the way, throw all of the above out the window if the Eagles are in the Super Bowl. Then it is okay anywhere and anytime. If they win the Super Bowl it would be mandatory at all times.

There is also a fight song. Um, check that, not a fight song, it is a victory song. Fight is a bad word at Eagles games because Eagle fans actually do fight on occasion. It got so bad at Veterans Stadium that the city set up a courtroom and jail cell right on the premises. So we don’t use the term “fight song” in Philadelphia anymore. Even the words of the original Eagles song have been changed to protect the innocent Redskins, Cowboys or Giants fans who make the near fatal flaw of actually going to an Eagles game to cheer on their team.

The song dates back to the 1950’s. Jim Gallagher still has the words and lyrics to the original song from a 1957 program when the Eagles played at Connie Mack Stadium. (The next season they would move to Franklin Field). In the program the names Charles Borrelli, Roger Courtland and Ben Musicant are listed as the writers of “The Eagles Victory Song.”

Here are the original lyrics:

The Eagles’ Victory Song

“Fight, Eagles Fight
On your way to victory.
Fight, Eagles Fight
Score a touchdown 1, 2, 3

Hit ‘em low
Hit’em high

Let us see our Eagles fly.
Come on and fight Eagles fight
On your way to victory.”

In the 50’s, Victory Song co-author Frank Courtland himself and his musicians would play the song at Shibe Park and Connie Mack Stadium. “The song never really caught on back then,” remembers Jim Gallagher. Then in 1964 Jerry Wolman bought the team. Wolman grew up in the Washington, D.C. area and loved hearing “Hail to the Redskins” at the games. Wolman put together a group of musicians who called themselves, “The Philadelphia Eagles Sound of Brass.” It was a fifty band fronted by a dozen or so women with pom-poms called the Eaglettes. The band was great. Wolman loved them.

But the fans never really embraced the band or the song. Maybe it’s because the team was terrible and the fans had a habit of taking out their aggression at half time. The Sound of Brass was playing “Here Comes Santa Claus” as poor Santa was getting pelted with hundreds of snowballs. When Leonard Tose bought the team in 1968, the band and the song disappeared.

It took twenty years for the song to make a comeback. It was a comeback worthy of Rocky.

Bob Mansure of Upper Darby, Delaware County approached the Eagles in 1997 about playing in the parking lot during home games at the vet. He had put together a band with three of his buddies and called them, “The Eagles Pep Band.” The Eagles gave them a two game pre-season audition. The two game audition has turned into a permanent gig.

Over the first year the band was constantly fine tuning the fight song. “The original song was five minutes long with lots of orchestration,” Bob Mansure explains. “It sounded like a song from a Disney movie in the 1950’s. It was good, but outdated.” Mansure and his buds chopped it down to 33 seconds; they change the words, the tempo, the key, and the title, just about everything. I reminded Bob that the song was copyrighted in 1961. “I know. No one has ever called to complain or challenge us. I think we’re in the clear.”

Here are the new lyrics:

Fly, Eagles, Fly

Fly, Eagles, Fly
On the Road to Victory.
Fly Eagles, Fly
Score a touchdown one, two, three.
(one, two, three)

Hit ‘em low, Hit’em high
And watch our Eagles Fly.

Fly, Eagles, Fly
On the Road to Victory.

The Eagles Pep Band marketed the song by playing it hundreds of times a game; in the parking lot before the game, after touchdowns during the game and even after the game (if the Eagles won). Soon the band was appearing at pep rallies, on TV reports and fans and clubs were hiring them for appearances. They are in essence a one hit wonder, but they will always be on the charts in Philadelphia. Bruce Mulford, Tony “Skull” DiMeo, Brain Saunders and Bobby Mansure have no problem with that. Bobby speaks for the entire pep band when he says, “We will never get tired of playing that song.”

And the rest of the Eagles fans will never get tired of singing along or chanting - E-A-G-L-E-S, Eagles!

It is a marriage made in heaven, one of those things that was a universal inevitability. At the end of “Fly, Eagles, Fly,” Eagles fans in unison shout the answer to their perpetual one word spelling bee. “I don’t even remember if it was the band or the fans that started doing it. It was just such a natural thing to do.” And so now the Eagles chant is part of the lyrics to the song, a perfect ending.

And it is the perfect way to celebrate the Eagles in the end zone.

Eagles’ owner Jeffrey Lurie loves the tradition of singing the song after every touchdown. When the team left Veterans Stadium to move into Lincoln Financial Field in 2003, Lurie instructed that lyrics of the song be written out on the giant video screen to make certain everyone knew the words and could sing along. Everybody already knew the words, but it still worked. It was as if the stadium itself was singing the song.

“Fly, Eagles, Fly” and “E-A-G-L-E-S, Eagles!” are now such an integral part of the soundtrack of Philadelphia, it is difficult to imagine that either will fade away. Win or lose, Eagles will sing and chant because it is not about a season or an owner or a player or even or a team; it is about the shared experience of being a Philadelphia. And that is something to cheer about.

By this would be an appropriate time to start a chant.

THE REMORSEFUL MAN

by John Robert Mendte - September 1931

A horrid thing it is to be
Alone, with just a memory;
To watch the lazy shadows fall
Quite aimlessly across the wall;
To sit thruout the lonely night
And see it flee the morning light;

To watch the yellow sunbeams glide
Across the rugged mountainside;
To see the stone that marks the spot,
And flowers growing on the plot.
I waited all the years; you came,
And Life was naught, but just the same.

It was not half so hard to wait,
For waiting is uncertain fate.
I never thought I'd miss you so
Until I calmly saw you go.
In that forsaken yesterday
I saw them carry you away.

And you seemed gone for quite a while
Before I even missed your smile.
The smile--and then I missed the touch--
And then the voice I loved so much.
It was not long before I knew
The thing I missed was really you.

The happiness I thought for me
Was crowded from the years to be.

II

Is Love but Moment's idle art
That finds a workshop in the heart?
To learn to love is easy, yet
Who shall teach me to forget?
Does silence mock this agony
And laugh to jeer my humble plea?

If Moment's art does seem unjust
Then Time shall heed her sacred trust.
And summon, Time, your mystic haze
To cloud the thoughts of bygone days.

III

Here let me speak the awful truth
That I was happy in my youth.
And youth had lasted on and on
Until I knew that she was gone.
If it were not her right to live
Then fate had not the right to give.

Was it the dust that gave her birth
That would return into its earth?
Perhaps her soul was dust--and she
The thing who wanted to be free?
No oracle there is who knows
For Fate shall guess, and Time suppose.

'Twas they who have me misery
And snatched my happiness from me.
Who seeks for equal scoops and fails
Can hardly call it balanced scales.
When Fate--in that most ghastly mask
Performed with glee that morbid task,
I saw his bony fingers clutch
The very thing I loved so much.

The world had seen a lady die;
A lady's coffin had passed by.
They saw a coffin draped in black,
They did not know the thief came back
To steal my sentiment and tears
And hold them prisoner with the years.

For, as I longed thruout the day
He came and stole my heart away.
I hoped some scrap might fall behind:
I sought, to see what I could find,
And all that there was left for me
Was just a gentle memory.

..oOo..

The following is the note my Father wrote in his poem book after this poem:

NOTE: In the very odd poem above the divisions are made thus: in I the remorseful man speaks to a departed loved one, in II he meditates and seeks into the cause of his unhappiness, in III he accuses abstract elements of stealing his happiness, gives a faint outline of a ballad and ends his soliloquy with his questions unanswered and with himself apparently none the better for his thinking.

He was trying to drown a sorrow that had learned to swim.


..oOo..

Second Chances

Despite what you may have heard, second chances in life are not deserved and should never be expected.

They are a gift.

Enlightened people with big hearts and pure intentions are the gift givers. These rare individuals believe in the inherent goodness of people. They are aware that each of us have the moments when we give in to our dark angels. They also are aware that our better angels can and will prevail if given the chance - a second chance.

I have never been prouder or have had more respect for Jeffery Lurie, Joe Banner, Andy Reid and the Philadelphia Eagles. They all possess the ability to judge a man by the wholeness of his being and not by his mistakes; by his promise and not by his past.

That ability is a rare and precious commodity. For proof of how rare, just go to the comment sections at Philly.Com and read as the hateful anonymous spew vitriol that Michael Vick should be damned forever.

It is true that what Michael Vick did - was and is reprehensible. Michael Vick agrees. He has paid a heavy cost. He has been made an example of. Time for Michael and all of the rest of us to move on.

I believe that those who now want to ostracize Michael Vick forever are also giving in to their darker angels. They represent the worst of us. The best of us, like Lurie, Reid and Banner, hope for the best and don't expect the worst. Hope and belief in the best of man - it is a very American trait.

"We hold these truths to be self-evident" is Jefferson's grand introduction to the American Spirit that embodies that hope.

We should all be cheering for Michael Vick. Not just as a football player, but as a person. I am not so cynical as the comment section detractors to believe that the Eagles signed Vick purely as monetary investment in hopes of building a better football team. I believe that the Eagles management also made an investment of compassion in hopes of building a better human being.

Look into your own soul for a moment. Have you never needed forgiveness, a second chance? If not, are you so confident that you will never need one in your life?

We are all flawed. At any moment, any one of us could be in a situation where personally. professionally or publicly, like Michael Vick, we yearn for the compassion and understanding of a community.

I, regrettably, have been forced to understand this better than most. I admit that I may not have been as compassionate if life events did not force understanding. Of that, I am both embarrassed and grateful.

Michael Vick was caught doing something awful. He owned up to it. Accepted his punishment and has shown public remorse. Debt paid. Those are the ingredients that you need for a second chance.

Save the vitriol for other public figures, those who refuse to accept responsibility, those who claim innocence against a mountain of evidence. Many of them are still playing sports, still making movies and TV shows, still broadcasting and still holding public office. In some perverse alter-reality, many who deny the evil obvious are afforded more courtesy than the few who take the more honorable choice of telling the truth and taking the consequences.

Michael Vick's choice makes him worthy of a shot at redemption.

I will, of course, be cheering for the Eagles as a team, even more now that they have shown such extraordinary compassion. But most of all, I will be cheering for Michael Vick as a person. We all should. It makes us all better. It allows us all to serve our better angels.

The Ghost At The General Wayne Inn

by Larry Mendte

My father ran an advertising and public relations business in Philadelphia called John Robert Mendte, Inc. He helped to write the Chiquita Banana song and was the creative force behind the famous television ad of Santa Claus sledding down a hill on a Norelco razor.

That ad started running in the late 1950's and has been updated and re-used for fifty years. Here is a version from 1960:



My father did so many things in his life. He painted beautiful art work. He wrote stories, plays and poems for radio, magazines and for his grandchildren. And he was a self-taught historian who went on to become President of the American Catholic Historical Society. He was in short, the smartest and most creative man I ever met.

But maybe his greatest accomplishment has been a secret for 35 years, until now. My father is responsible for the story of the Ghost of the General Wayne Inn.

The General Wayne is located at 625 Lancaster Avenue in Merion, Pennsylvania. It was originally land owned by William Penn. When it opened it was called The Wayside Inn and was popular with prominent colonists, who would stop on the well traveled Old Lancaster Roadway from Philadelphia to Radnor. It was the place to see celebrities and be seen outside of busy Philadelphia. The Inn was a hotel, a restaurant, a post office and a stable; perfect for stage coaches, merchants taking their wares to the city, dignitaries riding horseback and military brass. General George Washington and General Lafayette both frequented the Inn. Benjamin Franklin was the Inn’s postmaster for a time.

The Inn became know as The General Wayne Inn when General “Mad” Anthony Wayne had a three day long celebration at the establishment after signing a treaty ending years of war with American Indians in the Ohio Valley.

Edgar Allen Poe wrote part of his famous poem “The Raven” at the Inn, which was at one time the longest continually running restaurant in the country. But the Inn was forced to close because of a string of bad luck that very well could be blamed on the ghost, or ghosts, if you believe in such things.

The legend of the ghost dates back to a time during the Revolutionary War when Hessian soldiers occupied the Inn for a short time. Hessians were mercenary soldiers from Germany hired by the English to help in the fight against the Continental Army. The Hessians knew how to fight, but they didn’t know that the General Wayne Inn had a secret tunnel built by the Americans, in case they needed a quick escape. The secret tunnel led from the basement of the Inn to a nearby field.

Revolutionary soldiers used the tunnel to sneak into the Inn. When one poor Hessian was sent down to the cellar to get some wine for a victory celebration, he never made it back upstairs to the party. The colonists ambushed and killed the Hessian. They then dragged his body into the secret tunnel and buried him there.

That is the story my father liked to tell. You may also read that a spy killed the Hessian soldier and buried him in the wall; that a widow killed the Hessian soldier to avenge her husband; or that the Hessian was hiding from Colonial troops in the cellar and died of starvation after being locked in there.

It is not so important which story is true, but which story you choose to believe or retell. You see, these are not stories that were passed through the ages, but appeared 200 years after the incident.

The important point to remember for the legend is that a Hessian died in the cellar somewhere between 1776 and 1780. Got it?

For years, the General Wayne Inn served as a polling place. On Election Day 1848, a woman allegedly went down to the cellar to collect more ballots. When she returned, she told her supervisor that she saw a soldier in a green coat. It has been reported a number of times that the sighting was recorded in the official report to the Board of Elections.

That written record was found by my father, known to everyone as Bob Mendte. Bart Johnson owned the General Wayne Inn from 1970 until 1996. He hired my Dad to get some publicity for the Inn. As an historian and wonderful storyteller, my father was an ingenious choice. He quickly grabbed onto the ghost story and, pardon the pun, brought it back to life.

Hundreds of strange happenings were reported in the 1970’s and 80’s. A valet reports that a car mysteriously starts in the parking lot with the doors locked, windows up and no keys inside. A cash register drawer is found opened one morning filled with water, even though there was no rain and no leak. Doors would open, glasses would break, towels were tossed, tables and chairs would move, footsteps were heard and women sitting at the bar would report someone blowing on their necks.

Alice Gormley, an employee at the Inn, heard the ghost. She was walking through the lobby before opening when she heard a man say, “Alice, Alice.” She looked towards the voice and there standing on the stairs to the rooms upstairs was a soldier. Alice reports that the soldier seemed startled that Alice looked at him. When Alice asked, “Can I help you?” the ghost disappeared.

There have been other reported sightings, but the strangest comes from maitre d’ Dave Rogers, who was doing a routine check of the kitchen one night in 1972. Here is what Rogers told paranormal investigator Michaeleen Maer for her “Quantitative Investigation of The General Wayne Inn:”

“…as I was coming through to come out one of the exit doors . . . I . . . looked up and sitting on a chest of drawers that we have to . . . keep the bread warm, I saw—just for a split second . . . a head, just sitting there right on top of the [bread warmer]. And it was a very smoky color, as if it was a projection onto a screen or something. . . . I only saw it for a second, but I . . . I’ll never forget it. It . . . had a very painful expression . . . thin, black, slicked-back hair. His ears stuck out a little bit. He had pencil thin eyebrows and pencil thin mustache. And no neck or anything, just—just a head. That’s all I saw. . . .He was just sitting there, looking at me.”

Rogers said the head didn’t register at first. But when he left the kitchen he stopped as if hitting a brick wall. “I saw a head, I saw a head,” is what he yelled to other employees. When the group ran back in to the kitchen, the head was gone.

These stories were retold on local television news programs and in local and national newspapers and magazine. Teams of paranormal investigators and psychics came to the Inn from around the country.

One investigative team from Loyola University told my father that there were actually two Hessian soldiers in the basemen, brothers who killed each other in a suicide pact. Psychic Michael Benio claims to have talked with the ghost, who identified himself as Ludwig. Ludwig appeared to in Benio’s bedroom and told him that he was killed by a spy in the cellar and buried by his comrades in the wall. Ludwig was upset because he was Roman Catholic and never had a proper burial. Bart Johnson refused to allow Benio to dig up the cellar wall looking for Ludwig. Finally, medium Jean Quinn held a séance and found that the Hessian soldier’s name was Wilhelm, but he wasn’t alone. Jean Quinn claimed that the Inn was haunted by 17 ghosts.

I remember my father getting a big kick out of that. “Guess what,” he said at Sunday dinner, “a psychic found 17 ghosts at the General Wayne Inn. They’re going to need a bigger cellar.”

In the 1980’s, the NBC show “Unsolved Mysteries” contacted my father. They wanted to interview him for a show they were doing on “The Ghost of The General Wayne Inn.” You can watch the episode on YouTube. It is titled “Unsolved Mysteries General Waynes Inn Ghost.” Bart Johnson and my father were both prominently featured. Both loved the ghost or ghosts.

Bart Johnson died in May of 1996. My father died on November 29 of that same year.

Immediately after those deaths, horrific things started happening at the General Wayne Inn. On December 27, 1996, Jim Webb, new co-owner of the Inn, was found dead on the floor of his office with a single gun shot wound to the head. In February of 1997, Felicia Moyse, a 20 year old assistant chef at the Inn. committed suicide after having to admit to police that she was having an affair with Webb’s business partner and head chef, Guy Sileo. Sileo, after trying to blame Moyse for the murder, was later convicted and sentenced to life for shooting Webb for the insurance money on the Inn.

The Inn was never the same, after closing and reopening a few times under new ownership. A group bought the Inn in 2003 for Rabbi Shraga Sherman, the charismatic leader of an Orthodox Jewish organization on the Main Line. After a 1.5 million dollar renovation, the General Wayne Inn is a synagogue and community center. Rabbi Sherman promises to preserve the history of the Inn.

The local historical society is happy with the plans. My father would have been happy too. I guess we’ll wait and see if Ludwig or Wilhelm is happy. So much for the Roman Catholic burial.

I guess the question you have about now is “Does a ghost really haunt The General Wayne Inn or did your father make it all up?”

I will tell you this, my father was fascinated with the role of the Hessian soldiers during the Revolutionary War long before he took the General Wayne account. He wrote papers and gave speeches about the mistake King George made in hiring the mercenaries. There were almost as many Germans in America as Englishmen in 1776. The Germans, many living in Central Pennsylvania, had no interest in the war. To them, it was a fight between the English over taxes. But when the Hessian joined the fight, tens of thousands of German joined the Continental Army, doubling its size. Many of the Germans were chased out of their homeland by the Hessians and this was their chance for revenge. My father argued that as much as the French sending ships and money, the Germans of the New World with their axes and pitch forks helped the Americans win the Revolutionary War in one of the greatest upsets in history.

It was my father who brought illustrations of the Hessian soldiers in their bright green and yellow uniforms to the General Wayne Inn and asked the employees if that is the uniform they saw. All of the employees answered yes.

When I told my brother, named John Robert Mendte after my Dad, that I was going to write about the ghost, he said, “You’re not going to tell the real story are you?”

I told him that I didn’t know the real story.

Bobby then told me, “Dad was very proud of the fact that he never lied. He only repeated the stories of others.”

So, the truth is that I don’t know if there is really a ghost at the General Wayne Inn. I do know that he had the best PR man of any ghost in history.

***Here is the video of the Unsolved Mysteries report on the ghost at the General Wayne Inn featuring my father:

Free Video Hosting

The Philadelphia Experiment

by Larry Mendte



It is one of the most stubborn and talked about conspiracy theories in U.S. History, although in recent years it has taken a back seat to the alien remains being held at “Area 51” in Nevada.

“The Philadelphia Experiment” was the subject of a #1 bestselling book in 1979 and a Hollywood Movie in 1984. There are still those who believe it happened. There are people who swear they witnessed the U.S.S. Elridge disappear at the Philadelphia Naval Yard.

It is October 28, 1943, the day of the experiment. The Navy had been secretly planning for this day for sometime. Albert Einstein himself was helping formulate the experiment dubbed “Project Rainbow.” Dr. Franklin Reno was the man in charge. The Navy was interested in the possible military implications of Einstein’s Unified Field Theory, which attempts to define the relationship between gravity and electromagnetic forces. The Navy believe, according to the story, that Einstein’s theory could be used to bend light and cloak a ship from U-Boats. The German submarines had already torpedoes and sunk a thousand allied ships in 1943. The Elridge was a new class of ship called Destroyer Escorts, specifically designed to seek out and defend fleets from the U-Boats. They were smaller, quicker and easier to maneuver than a regular Destroyer and, if the experiment was successful, they would have the added ability to disappear.

A skeleton crew was placed on the Elridge for that fall day in 1943. Navy Brass and scientists, including Einstein and Reno, were a safe distance away to observe. The experiment began and electromagnetic waves could be seen sparking like electricity around the ship. Suddenly the ship was engulfed in a greenish, fiery fog, not unlike St. Elmo’s fire.

After a few seconds, the ship vanished. And there was an unexpected side effect, the ship was transported. It reappeared inside that same green fog over 200 miles away to the Navy Base in Norfolk, Virginia. The fog lifted, the ship and crew were visible to all. And in a flash of light, it was gone and reappeared back where it started in dock at the Philadelphia Navy Yard.

The observers were overjoyed. The ship had disappeared and reappeared completely intact. But upon closer inspection something went terribly wrong. Horrific things had happened to the crew. Some of them never reappeared. Some of them had become molecularly connected to the ship, they appeared as if they were buried in steel. Many died. Those that survived had to be committed because of sever mental problems.

Loved ones were told the men were lost at sea. The ships logs were fixed to make certain there was no evidence that the Elridge was ever in Philadelphia. The project was scrubbed and witnesses were bound by a secret legal bond that promised severe punishment if broken. The file on the Project Rainbow was labeled something beyond Top Secret.

But one of the witnesses, a sailor named Carlos Miguel Allende, broke the code of silence. In 1957, the office of Naval Research in Washington, D.C. received a package with a paperback book inside. The book was entitled “The Case for the UFO” by Morris K. Jessup. Written in hand on the borders of the pages were details about “The Rainbow Project.” Specific dates and names were given along with an eyewitness account. It got the attention of the U.S. Navy and the called Jessup, who told them he had cordoned with the former sailor and identified him as Allende. Carlos Allende was later discovered to be crewman Carl Allen

A nationwide search by the Navy, Jessup and an army of conspiracy theorists ensued, but no one could find Allen. In 1959, after a bitter divorce and a bad car accident, Jessup committed suicide. But conspiracy theorists claimed he was killed by the government. The search for Carl Allen intensified as did the story of the secret project.

In 1966, Allen was finally found and admitted the whole thing was a hoax. But it was too late, the story had already taken root in the fertile imagination of a cult of believers. The Navy investigated the claim and released a report debunking the story. The investigation was met with skepticism and only made the conspiracy seem real.

Several books either were written about or mentioned the experiment on the USS Elridge as fact. The most famous, “The Philadelphia Experiment: Project Invisibility” by Charles Berlitz was a bestseller. The Experiment was now in the national limelight and getting main stream scrutiny. Historian and Author Robert Goerman wrote this about the claim in the book, “If we are to believe Carl Allen, our naval hierarchy abandoned sanity and historical precedent by conducting an experiment of enormous importance in broad daylight using a badly needed destroyer escort vessel. If someone were to write a book telling the real story, its title might be “The Philadelphia Hoax: Project Gullibility.”

Well, when you put it that way, it does seem kind of silly. And yet so many believe.

In 1984, Hollywood released a movie called “The Philadelphia Experiment” and claimed it was “based on a true story.” In 1990, Alfred Bielek, who claimed to be a member of the Elridge, proclaimed publicly that the movie was %100 percent accurate. Bielek was interviewed by magazines and TV shows and the story got new life.

In 2004 a small team of investigators debunked Bielek’s story and it is now believed that he was nowhere near the ship in 1943.

In fact, the ship was nowhere near Philadelphia in 1943. It was in New York Harbor on the day of the alleged “Philadelphia Experiment.” It did arrive in Norfolk, Virginia on November 2nd of 1943 and left Norfolk the following day for Casablanca, but it arrived and left the old fashioned way. The Elridge was never in Philadelphia.

But, if the Navy fixed the logs, that may not be true.

Except over a hundred crew members have been interviewed and they all say the same thing, “It never happened.”

But, if the Government bought them all off or brain washed them, of course that’s what they’ll say.

Then how about the fact that Einstein never completed his Unified Field Theory. You know, the theory that the entire experiment was based on. Oh, and most importantly, how about the fact that Carl Allen admitted he made the whole thing up!

Like many conspiracy theories, this one is rooted in a mistrust of the government. It is true that the U.S, military conducts secret experiments. It is true that Albert Einstein was working with the U.S. Navy on weaponry in 1943.

The Navy thinks the root of the story is based on a real experiment on electrical degaussing that was taking place at the Philadelphia Navy Yard. Degaussing is when electrical cables are installed all around the ship’s hull and cancels out the ship’s magnetic field. The process makes the ship “invisible” to the magnetic mines that are used by the enemy in the shallow waters near combat zones. But you can still see the ship and it can still be picked up on sonar.

Many independent research teams, authors and the staff of the Navy’s Operational Archives have come to the same conclusion. There is just no evidence that the “Philadelphia Experiment” ever happened.

But just wait. It is too good of a story and it’s been around too long to go away that easily. There are undoubtedly some conspiracy theorists who still believe. All the story needs is a spark of life from a new witness or a grain of circumstantial evidence and the legend of the Philadelphia Experiment will live again.

The History Channel Report on The Philadelphia Experiment - Part One:



The Philadelphia Experiment - Pat Two:



The Philadelphia Experiment - Part Three:



The Philadelphia Experiment - Part Four:



The Philadelphia Experiment - Part Five:

The Chalk Outline That Is Ben Franklin's House

Franklin Court is a wonderful piece of history sitting right smack dab in the middle of the block that is bordered by Market Street to the North, Chestnut to the South, Third Street to the East and Fourth to the West.

The brick archway that leads to Market Street is the same that Benjamin Franklin himself walked through. Before you step on the cobblestone under the archway look to your left and you see the First Post Office in the United States founded by Franklin. Look to right and there is "Benjamin Franklin Printing," inside is his original printing press and other artifacts.

The cobblestone leads you to a magnificent courtyard and in the center of all this historical wonderment is a mystery. The house where Benjamin Franklin lived most of his adult life, the house where he pondered both the magic of electricity and the possibility of American sovereignty, is gone.

In its place is what amounts to a stick figure drawing of the space the house once took up. It is a major disappointment.

What happened to Ben’s house? His grandchildren tore it down and sold the land in 1812. The area around the Franklin home was all very commercial and historians theorize that the land was becoming more valuable than the house. Talk about unappreciative little brats! Makes you worry a little about your own will doesn’t it?

“It was a sign of the times,” according to Coxey Toogood, an historian working for the National Park Service at Independence Mall and owner of the best name I had ever heard. “America hadn’t begun to look backwards yet. It was still a forward looking country.”

It wasn’t until 1948 that Congress created Independence National Park and included Franklin Court. “There was much debate about reconstructing the house,” according to Coxey.

But there was a big problem. No one knew exactly what then house looked like. “There are no images, paintings or pictures of the house,” according to Steve Setarski of the National Park Service.

In the 1760’s Franklin was doing diplomatic work in England while his wife Deborah was overseeing construction of the house. The two sent detailed notes back and forth to each other about the design of the house. Benjamin Franklin even drew pictures of what he wanted the rooms to look like and sent them to Deborah.

Unfortunately, for all his brilliance, Ben wasn’t much of an artist. “The drawings were pretty rudimentary,” and Steve was being kind. “There just wasn’t enough to go on.”

Ironically, the house that Ben Franklin stayed at in London on Craven Street is still standing and is a big tourist historical tourist attraction. They call it “The Benjamin Franklin House” and advertise it as “the world’s only remaining Franklin home.” Ouch!

And so the original basement was dug out and Plexiglas was placed over it so visitors could look down into all that is left of Ben Franklin’s home – a hole in the ground. It was a tad anticlimactic for tourists. “Visitors are surprised and disappointed that the house isn’t there,” admits Setarski.

The house had one last shot at rising again. In the years leading up to America’s Bicentennial celebration, there was a new push to reconstruct history in the city. The Olde City Tavern, where the Founding Fathers would let their powdered wigs down, was reconstructed. The birth of a nation and democracy were debated over a pint in the Olde City Tavern on Second Street and Chestnut. Also, the boarding house owned by the well know builder Jacob Graf was reconstructed. It was there that Thomas Jefferson rented a room and wrote the Declaration of Independence. The Graf house sat on the corner of 7th and Market right across the street from the Philadelphia stables. While writing the most important document in American History, Jefferson would constantly complain about the horseflies and the smell coming through the window. The original house was torn down in 1883. Photographs of the site allowed the National Park Service to feel confident in reconstruction. The building is now called “The Declaration House.”

If The National Park Service went to all that effort to bring back the Olde City Tavern and the Declaration House, what about Franklin’s house? “There was long and careful study and a differing of opinions on whether it could be replicated,” according to Coxey Toogood. “The staff really wanted it reconstructed.” But in the end the historians argued again that there was not enough to go on. “There was just not enough evidence,” says Coxey with a disappointing sigh. “All possible designs were far too conjectural.”

And Steve Setarski admitted that there was a bit of fear that they would look foolish. “What if a painting surfaced years later of Franklin’s house and it proved what we built was wrong? We just couldn’t risk that kind of embarrassment.”

Still everyone agreed that a hole in the ground just wasn’t enough. So the world famous architect Robert Venturi was commissioned to construct what is called “a ghost structure.” It gives people the general idea of how big and wide a structure was without trying to reconstruct it. Knowing that Franklin’s house was three stories tall and took up 33 square feet of land. Venturi built a skeleton of a house with white steel beams that is 54 feet high.

It looks like a homicide chalk outline of the house that was murdered by Franklin’s grandchildren.

“It is true that some visitors are still disappointed,” admits Setarski. “But the structure itself is considered the design and architectural standard for all ghost structures. We get architects and artists from around the world to study and photograph it.” And the Steve repeated the phrase that is said at least once about every piece of modern art, “Some people just don’t get it.”

Include me in the group who don’t get it.

And now I write this disappointing memo to the other people in my group:

Dear People Who Don’t Get It,
In regards to the Ghost Structure that is masquerading as Ben Franklin’s
house: Nothing is going to change anytime soon. – Larry

According to Steve Setarski, the policy of the National Park Service changed after the nation’s bicentennial. It no longer believes in the reconstruction of history. “The current feeling is that we do not do reconstruction because it is misleading.”

And so the stick figure, the homicide outline, that sits above the hole in the ground will have to suffice as an important historic site. The National Park Service calls it architectural art. I call it a constant reminder that the house was torn down. But maybe that is also the point. Maybe the tearing down of the structure is our forever reminder that we must preserve and protect our important buildings and homes because one day they too will be history.

Or maybe we can just hope that the philosophy of the National Park Service changes again and one day we can reconstruct the house. In the meantime, start looking at estate sales, in your attic and on EBay for a painting of Ben Franklin’s house. We get that and we solve a mystery that may finally exorcise the ghost of Franklin Court.

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Philadelphia Owed Abraham Lincoln a Bigger Party for his Birthday.

Abraham Lincoln is unquestionably one of the five greatest men in America's history, if not the greatest. Historians rank either Lincoln or George Washington as America's most important President.

This past February 12 was Lincoln's 200th birthday and quite frankly - the City of Philadelphia - the National Parks Service - and the Historical Society - all blew it.

Rightfully so, the city spent an entire year honoring Philadelphia's favorite son, Benjamin Franklin's 300th birthday. But the Lincoln 200 celebration came and went without much notice because instead of having it on his birthday, the city planned it for July 2-5. Lincoln was overshdowed by fireworks, the Jersey Shore and Cheryl Crow.

It amounted to the city giving Lincoln a nod in afterthought, with a funny Lincoln impersonator entertaining visitors on Independence Mall, an insult to what Lincoln means to that sacred ground.

What's that? You didn't know that Lincoln played a part in Philadelphia history?

Abraham Lincoln visited Independence Hall twice and finished the work started by our founding fathers.

In the mid-1800's, Independence Mall was revered, but it was still a working government building. In 1850 the U.S. District Court rented the second floor of the Hall. That arrangement allowed the tragic contradiction of the Founding Fathers to once again haunt this hallowed building.

In 1776, Thomas Jefferson wrote that “all men are created equal,” even though he himself was a slave owner and did not have the courage to live up to his words. John Adams, Ben Franklin and other pointed out the hypocrisy of forming a “free” country where there were slaves, but to no avail. The vote on the declaration had to be unanimous and the delegates from the Southern States would not sign a document that abolished slavery.

Fast forward to 1850, Congress passes a tough new Fugitive Slave Act, again to appease the south. Southern slave owners could come north and reclaim runaway slaves in court as property. The center of these trials from 1850 to 1854 was the second floor of Independence Hall.

It was a stunning act of duplicity. Men, women and children were being shackled and re-enslaved right above the room where the country was founded on the idea that all me have the right to “Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” People were losing their independence in Independence Hall. It was blasphemy of a sacred idea. The hypocrisy of the founding fathers had come home to roost.

The stains of Independence Hall’s vile history of duplicity would be removed appropriately by the man who signed the Emancipation Proclamation, and declared that all men would finally be free in America as promised.

The election of Abraham Lincoln as President of the United States assured that the nation would go to war over the issue of slavery. The South had made it abundantly clear that they would secede from the union if Lincoln won. On his way to his inauguration, Lincoln stopped at Independence Hall. The building was once again on the center stage at a defining moment in American history. The nation was in crisis and Lincoln was there on the birthday of another President who led through a time of crisis. It was Washington’s Birthday, February 22, 1861, and Lincoln raised a new flag with 34 stars on it over the state house, Kansas was the newest of the United States.

Lincoln then gave a speech. It is clear in the speech that the gentleman from Illinois knew his place in history. It was clear that he knew the time was at hand to live up to the true promise of the Declaration of Independence.

Lincoln said:

“I am filled with deep emotion at finding myself standing here in the place where were collected together the wisdom, the patriotism, the devotion to principle, from which sprang the institutions under which we live. You have kindly suggested to me that in my hands is the task of restoring peace to our distracted country. I can say in return, sir, that all the political sentiments I entertain have been drawn, so far as I have been able to draw them, from the sentiments which originated, and were given to the world from this hall in which we stand.

I have never had a feeling politically that did not spring from the sentiments embodied in the Declaration of Independence. (Great cheering.)

I have often pondered over the dangers which were incurred by the men who assembled here and adopted that Declaration of Independence—I have pondered over the toils that were endured by the officers and soldiers of the army, who achieved that Independence. (Applause.)

I have often inquired of myself, what great principle or idea it was that kept this Confederacy so long together. It was not the mere matter of the separation of the colonies from the mother land; but something in that Declaration giving liberty, not alone to the people of this country, but hope to the world for all future time. (Great applause.)

It was that which gave promise that in due time the weights should be lifted from the shoulders of all men, and that all should have an equal chance. (Cheers.) This is the sentiment embodied in that Declaration of Independence.”

Lincoln was ready to remove the inherent hypocrisy from the term “all men are created equal.” But he also acknowledged that the founding fathers had their hands tied in 1776. It was Lincoln’s belief that they knew in their infinite wisdom that this day would come.

And then Lincoln said something ominously stunning, “But if this country cannot be saved without giving up that principle, I was about to say I would rather be assassinated on this spot than surrender it.”

Lincoln returned to Philadelphia Hall in a casket four years later. On April 22, 1865, Lincoln laid in state inside Independence Hall. He was assassinated 8 days earlier by John Wilkes Booth, a confederate sympathizer. Lincoln believed that the founding fathers, in their Declaration, did not as much create, as prophesied an America where all men are free. When Lincoln accepted the task of making the prophecy of the fathers come true, at the site of the signing of the Declaration, he prophesied his own death. It was only right that his body return to the site of both bold statements.

Lincoln’s body laid in state in Independence Hall for three days. 85 thousand people waited to pay their respects, the line went past Broad Street. The Liberty Bell was positioned at the head of the casket. The inscription was plain to see for all who made the pilgrimage to pray at the side of this martyr for freedom, “PROCLAIM LIBERTY THROUGHOUT THE LAND AND TO ALL INHABITANTS THEROF.”

If you haven’t visited Independence Hall recently, you should. Like the freedoms that it represents, Philadelphians sometimes take the Hall and much of our other historical sites for granted.

But there is an aura of greatness inside that humble building and you can’t help but feel it. Adams, Jefferson and Franklin still speak to us, years after their great experiment.

And when you go, remember Abraham Lincoln. The signers of the Declaration were willing to lay down their lives for Freedom. Lincoln did. And not just for a few, but for all men.

It was Lincoln who proved the experiment of America could indeed work.

Now that you know, don't you think Abraham Lincoln deserved more from this city?


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Blame Drew's Cancer

Cancer.

It just might be the scariest word in the English language.

For years, the diagnosis was a death sentence. Now, thanks to the miracle workers who toil tirelessly in anonymity doing research, that is no longer the case.

Still, the word is terrifying.

There was a time when no one would even talk about it, as if the word itself could cause the disease. Not much was known about the cruel affliction and the fear of the unknown begets irrationality.

But conversation is important.

It is impossible to even begin to find a cure if no one even has the nerve to bring up the topic.

That is why people like Alex Scott and Drew Olanoff bring hope to millions just like them.

Alex Scott you may know. Drew Olanoff you probably don't know - yet.

Alex is the little girl who was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer before her first birthday. She spent the next seven years of her life in and out of hospitals fighting for life's most precious commodity - time.

And she didn't waste the time that she was given.

Alex held a lemonade stand to raise money - not for herself - but for other children with cancer. The story of this adorable little girl selling lemonade to fight childhood cancer swept the country and other children followed her lead.



Alex Scott died on August 1, 2004. But her story inspired a movement. The Alex's Lemonade Stand Foundation, run by Alex's parents Liz and Jay, has now raised over 25 million dollars for childhood cancer research and care.

Just as important, a beautiful child with a big heart, an old soul and a lemonade stand made it easier to talk about an awful topic - childhood cancer. The innocent bravery of a four year old girl fighting for others like her warmed our hearts and melted our fears.

Which brings us to Drew Olanoff.

Drew was born to be a success. Smart, driven and funny, he left Philadelphia to find his fortunes. A self-proclaimed geek, job offers were plentiful in the world of new Internet technology. Drew stopped home to visit his folks in Philly in between dream jobs, when he noticed a lump on his neck.

Cancer.

The terrifying word no one wants to hear.

It was Hodgkin's Lymphoma, 90 percent curable when caught early. Still, who wants a one in ten chance you might die after some hair erasing, strength sapping chemotherapy.

Alex Scott made it easy to talk about cancer because she was innocent and adorable.

Drew Olanoff is using humor to keep the conversation going.

In his own words - "I’ve been blaming my cancer for everything; lost keys, wallet, Phillies losing; Sixers picking a bad coach; Twitter going down and/or being slow."


Blaming the cancer aloud made it easier to deal with - it made him feel better. Drew wanted to share that gift with the world. So, through the magic of the Internet, Drew gave everyone the opportunity to blame his cancer for their problems.

On Twitter and through his blogs, people have used Drew's cancer as the cause of a panoply of misfortunes.

So far people have Blamed Drew's Cancer for not sleeping well; for Sarah Palin resigning and for Punky Brewster being cancelled - to name but a few.

And as they Blame Drew's Cancer, they laugh and feel a little better. Suddenly, cancer is not such a scary thing at all. Go ahead - blame Drew's cancer for that.

The simple act of blaming Drew's cancer has started to spread - Lance Armstrong's charity LiveStrong took notice and are now sponsoring Drew. And the people at NBC.Com recently put an interview with Drew on it's homepage:



I blame Drew's cancer for Nickleback. My daughter Stacia said, "I don't know why that is funny, but it is."

It is.

As I talked about Drew and his weird but wonderful cancer movement with my family, my five year old son Michael inserted himself in the conversation. My two year old David had a wee setback in his potty training and Michael exclaimed, "I blame Drew's cancer for David peeing his pants."

We all laughed.

I don't know why it is funny - but it is.

And Blaming Drew's Cancer is spreading across the country. So far 8244 people in all 50 states have blamed 14674 bad things on Drew's cancer and that number is going up like a gas pump meter.

Just like Alex Scott, Drew Olanoff is raising awareness. And just like Alex Scott, Drew Olanoff wants to raise a million dollars. He is hoping that from now on, whenever somebody blames his cancer for their problems, they donate a dollar to either LiveStrong or the American Cancer Society.

I spoke with Drew on the phone today. The signal cut out before I could suggest that he give some of that money to the Alex's Lemonade Stand Foundation as a nod to another person who watched a small gesture grow into a movement. Drew sent out a message on Twitter about losing the connection - he blamed it on his cancer.

On 9/9/09 Drew will be holding a 24 hour Blame-A-Thon on the Internet to raise money to cure cancer. The Blame-A-Thon will originate from Independents Hall (not to be confused with Independence Hall), at 20 North 3rd St on the 2nd floor. It is a cool working space for all creative types in Philly. There will also be bands performing at the legendary North Star Bar at 27th and Poplar.

On the surface my comparison of Alex and Drew might seem like a stretch. One is a sweet little girl who fought cancer her whole short life and used her sweet innocence to create a movement of childhood philanthropy that exists five years after her death. The other is a 29 year old Internet geek with 19 tattoos who has fought cancer since May of this year and should live a long life. He used his whacked sense of humor to create a movement on Twitter that has an unknown expiration date.

But I am looking much deeper. I am looking at the heart and the soul. There you will find deep and lasting similarities.

Both took something bad and made it good. Both used their tragedies to help others. Both are driven - not by fear - but by love.

Alex was inspired by the children she befriended at the pediatric oncology ward at the hospitals she frequented. Drew was inspired by his father and other friends and relatives who survived cancer and some who did not.

And they are connected another way - Drew admits that he was inspired by the story of Alex. He just would have looked silly at a lemonade stand so he spread awareness his own way.

They are different on the surface but connected by a selfless spirit to help others who are just like them.

***Update*** AOL has a story on drew - click here to read it.


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Thoughts on Independence Day in Philadelphia

by Larry Mendte

It may be the most powerful sentence ever written. Penned in Philadelphia 227 years ago, 13 words that embodied the improbable notion of America. 13 words that boldly set sail to an ideal that would grow in strength over time and topple dictators, monarchs and oppressive governments.

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."

It was almost perfect. The second sentence in the American Declaration of Independence seems so obvious now. At the time, it was a slap in the face to King George and all those like him who believed men did not earn their position in life, but were given it at birth. At the time, it was a brazen declaration that begot a revolution. A revolution of democracy that continues to this day.

The only blemish on this almost perfect sentence is the author himself. Thomas Jefferson was never able to live up the ideal he so brilliantly stated. He was a great writer, but, many argue, not a great man.

Jefferson owned slaves. It was an ugly contradiction to the brilliance of his writing. And although some argue that he should be forgiven because he was just a product of his times, Jefferson knew better. Jefferson wrote several times that slavery demeaned master and slave alike. So he knew. And yet he profited as his 187 slaves built and ran his palatial estate, Monticello. Historians believe he had a long sexual relationship with a slave, Sally Hemmings, and fathered six children with her. He kept those children at Monticello as slaves. He did free Sally Hemmings and her children upon his death, but they were the only slaves he freed.

Washington, who was not as intellectually gifted as Jefferson, freed all of his slaves. And wrote, "There is not a man living who wishes more sincerely than I do, to see a plan adopted for the abolition of (slavery)." Two other founding fathers, Ben Franklin and John Adams, abhorred slavery. John Adams called slavery "an evil of colossal magnitude." Benjamin Franklin called slavery "an atrocious debasement of human nature." And yet both men begrudgingly agreed to put the slavery issue off until a later time for the good of the Union. The representatives of the southern states never would have signed the Declaration of Independence if the abolition of slavery was a condition.

John Adams was ashamed and said the American revolution would never be complete until slavery was abolished.

Adams, Franklin and Washington were great men. They were the stars of the American Revolution. Jefferson was the script writer.

As our third President, Jefferson would champion religious freedom and the right to free education for all American children. But through his two terms as President, he owned slaves. One of nine US Presidents to do so.

Many will point out how unfair it is to use today's morals and standards to judge the past. But, great men rise above their times. Jefferson just lacked the courage and conviction to lead by the same ideal that he so eloquently put to parchment.

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."

The words, it seems, were stronger than the man.


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Philadelphia Cream Cheese

by Larry Mendte

A friend from the United Kingdom recently tweeted me on Twitter that "We have a soft cheese over here that we call Philadelphia. Do you call it England there?" Un - no. But here is all the information you would ever want and more on Philadelphia Cream Cheese

Fraud!

This product stole our name. It did not originate from Philadelphia. It is not made in Philadelphia. It is complete and udder thievery of our cities name. The only reason we continue to let the cream cheese people get away with it is that their product tastes so incredibly good and gave to this nation one of the best things known to man - cheesecake.

Cream Cheese was very much an experiment gone bad, but good. In 1872, William Lawrence, a dairy farmer in Chester, NY, was trying to figure out the process to make a French cheese called Neufchatel. Instead he invented a new rich creamy cheese that was better than the best Neufchatel ever made. The process of making cream cheese is a difficult one but worth it for what Lawrence described as a “richer cheese than ever before.”

Cream cheese is made from a combination of cream and milk, and is not matured or hardened, as are most cheeses. Instead, it is slightly firmed by the introduction of lactic acid. Frequently, less expensive brands will add stabilizers like guar gum the necessary firmness, because the high fat content of the milk products is prone to separating. Some feel that using stabilizers in cream cheese is cheating and they will only eat cream cheese made the “old-fashioned” way. In many ways, cream cheese is a perfect name because it is in a perpetual "in between" state.

In 1880, A.L. Reynolds, a New York cheese distributor was the first one to start marketing the cream cheese in tin foil wrapping with the name “Philadelphia Cream Cheese.” He named it that because in the late 1800’s, Philadelphia was considered the home of top quality food in the United States. If someone said that a food was “Philadelphia quality,” that meant it was the best. So A.L. quite literally stole our good name for profit. Shouldn’t we get a cut?

Kraft, one of the biggest food companies in the world, now manufactures and distributes Philadelphia Cream Cheese and has made billions on the brand. The largest Cream Cheese plant in the world is on Lowville, NY. That’s where they have the annual “Philadelphia Cream Cheese Festival” every year. Let me repeat that - the PHILADELPHIA cream cheese festival is held every year in Lowville, NY. Couldn’t the good people of Kraft had the decency of at least moving their Philadelphia Cream Cheese plant a little closer to Philly? The festival would have made a lot more sense here. We could have made a 400 pound cheesecake. We could have called it the Philadelphia Cheesecake/Cheesesteak Festival.

Philadelphia Cream Cheese is now recognized around the world. In South and Central America it is called Queuso Filadelfia or Philadelphia Cheese. In many parts of Europe, including the United Kingdom, it is just called Philadelphia. It is very possible that there are people in the world who know that Philadelphia is a cheese but do not know it is a city. And more people who think Philadelphia the city is named after the cheese. Are you feeling any indignation at all?

I will admit. I do like the International Kraft commercials when they show the angels eating cream cheese. You can watch them from around the world on YouTube.



I especially like when the announcer says, “Philadelphia, a little taste of heaven.” They angels also just call the cream cheese “Philly.” As in, “What’s a bagel with no Philly?” I kind of like that too.

In truth, maybe both the city and the cream cheese have benefited from sharing the name.

All I know is that when I was 7 or 8 years old, my Mom would make Philadelphia Cream Cheese sandwiches and jelly on white bread sandwiches. She would cut them into four squares and pack them in a bag and on Saturday I would take them to watch the matinee at the Lansdowne movie theatre. It is one of my favorite childhood memories. Philadelphia really was a little piece of heaven.

Still is.

Sean the Suburban Lizard

by Megan Morris, my niece

Jack caught a baby toad in the backyard.

It was a few weeks ago and seemingly insignificant… but I am going to go ahead and blame it all on the toad because I don’t think the idea would have gotten stuck in Jack’s head otherwise… the fact that he needed a reptile, that is.

So Jack and his sisters held the toad hostage in a Tupperware bowl poked with air holes for several hours. He was kind of cute actually, for a toad. But, as any good mom would, I reminded them that the TOAD’S mommy was probably looking for him and convinced the kids to release the poor creature sometime near dinner.

The toad skedaddled into the bushes.. The kids washed up, ate, moved on.

Well, the girls did. Jack became shall we say OBSESSED with the idea of catching, keeping, owning another one… and let me tell you, when a 5-year-old becomes obsessed with something, its kind of like owning a parrot that you can’t legally put in a cage and cover with a black drape. The pleading was constant, “when can we get a toad, a frog, a turtle, mom how about a snake? Mom mom mom mom mom mom mom mom MOMMMMMMMM??? WHEN?????”

Like that.

It started out as toad pleading, but he quickly revealed his desperation. Any reptile would do. I was beginning to regret releasing the first one. I mean, I wasn’t 100% sure his “mommy was looking for him” and he just sort of hopped into our laps. He was free-of-charge. I may have been too hasty, after all, his mommy may have died in a terrible toad drive by or cat attack and now that infant toad is all on his own somewhere or worse, dead.

Nonetheless, that toad was not coming back. He made that mistake once. So we discussed reptile possibilities for a week. My pat answers were dwindling, and falling on 5-year-old deaf ears… and those are some deaf ears my friends. “We will see honey. I don’t know baby. We will talk about it kiddo.” “I can’t deal with that now buddy.” “I said WAIT!”

Luckily the reptile-fest hit right before Tim went on a work trip… so I went from blaming the toad, to blaming the dad. “We have to wait until daddy gets home buddy.”
And daddy didn’t actually arrive home for 4 days, buying me precious “don’t have to deal with that nightmare” time.

Now, I will be honest, Tim’s a hard ass. No nonsense with pet requests in the past, I was confident he would put an end to the reptile ramblings. I myself brought a kitten home for Maddy’s fifth birthday. I kid you not; the poor creature had Kitty AIDS, acquired by his whorish mother cat, and died a year later.

Kids in mourning, screaming, crying, hundreds of dollars in vet bills, absolute cluster nightmare. Not only will my kids surely end up in therapy over the whole disaster, Tim will NEVER let me live it down.

So naturally, when Tim did get home, I was assured a firm, reasonable, calm but assured “NO. No toads, turtles, NO NO NO!” which was exactly what Chicken Mom was counting on. The Bad Guy Returneth… just wait. He’ll set you straight, you reptile loving midget.

But when Bad Guy did get back, I was in for a sad, hard reality. I caught a really bad break my friends. Tim was apparently denied his own reptile back in the day and has been stewing about it for upwards of 40 years. That’s a long time to wait for anything, even a lizard and Tim was going to get HIS. FRIG! The answer was a restrained but definite yes from my great white hope.

I remember the conversation going something like this:

Jack = “DADDY! YOU ARE HOME! CAN I GET A TURTLE TONIGHT????”
Tim = “Yes.”
Me = ”WHAT THE F&^%$#%^&???”

Tim does not remember it going down that way… but this is my version of this story. He can write his own version, if he so chooses.

So, he loaded up the 5-year-old, who was ribbiting and spinning like a top. They had decided on a turtle, by the way, but Jackie didn’t know what sound a turtle makes, and he HAD to make non-stop noise, so ribbiting was going to have to do.

Now, I don’t know if you know this, but many states have Turtle Laws. You can’t legally sell a turtle until they are four inches across. And according to the Humane Society, Federal regulations prohibit selling turtles less than four inches long as pets, largely to help prevent Salmonella, a bacterial infection that turtles carry that can cause severe diarrhea illnesses in humans.

Oh ew. Salmonella? Really?

Plus the damn things grow to the size of a small dog… oh yeah, they bite too.

The bored teenager at the Pet Store set my reptile lovers, Big and Small straight. Jack responded with wails, sniffling and all around hysteria. Tim responded by unburdening his wallet of about 200 bucks and buying his hysterical "Mini Me" a lizard HIS childhood reptilian hearts desire), a lizard encasement, a light to sun the lizard, desert sand, trees and about 2-dozen see through crickets for the thing to eat.

I was oblivious to the change in plans. I had resigned myself to a tiny turtle swimming in a bowl. I’ve seen them, somewhere, looking something like that. That was the picture in my head as I waved goodbye to the turtle seekers and headed off to a jewelry party. I figured it would cost about $50 bucks out the door for said tiny turtle and would live a few months…year tops.

And yes, I said I was going to a jewelry party… don’t judge me!

So, ANYWAY, I was in a fog of my own misdeeds for purchasing unnecessary jewelry when I arrived home – no thought of turtle or otherwise - when I encountered the 200-dollar debacle sitting in all its glory on my kitchen table. Not a turtle.

“NOT A TURTLE?” “What is THAT??????”

My mind lept to the toad, if you will pardon the pun. I peered out the back door, scanning the bushes for toads…maybe his “mommy” was still out there too. We could fill Tupperware after Tupperware with free and gloriously tiny toads and take back that Tank O’ Hell before its too late.

I glanced at it again in terror. “What IS THAT THING???”

“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy MOMmeeeeeeeeee, look look LOOK!” The Mini Tim was ecstatic. The big one, not so much. I would say he looked more sheepish than anything. “Mommy he grows 18 feet long!”

“Inches buddy, and that will mostly be his tail” Tim trying to help me NOT freak out.
Way to go.

“His TAIL?” I looked down at the thing. The tail was already long. Involuntary shiver.

“How much?” I ask.. Tim puts up two fingers. Peace? “Hundred” he says. UGH! 2-HUNDRED DOLLARS????????

“Inches, 18 INCHES mom! He eats crickets and meal worms and you have to keep this hot light on him and he likes to hide and we have to hold him every day to SOCIAL-WISE him!”

I looked at my Parental Partner. “You failed me,” my eyes accused. He failed me big time. Tim shrugged. (wait for it) “He’s kind of cool,” was his response to my terror. KIND OF COOL, he says. Two hundred dollars cool? I stood there stunned staring at the 3-foot long plexi-glass display taking up half the table.

I was just about to tell Tim how unfair, how ludicrous, how reptilian I thought the whole Lizard deal was… Great white HOPE my ASS! Choice words scattered my brain to describe the thing, the little, but about to be big THING, Monster, snake with legs, cricket-eating EWWWWWWY THINGY!!!!!

When, as if he read my mind, Jack said, “His name is Sean!”

I looked down at him. Blink blink. “Sean? Who is Sean?” Still fired up…

“YEP! Sean.” He pointed at the Lizard… beaming, proud as punch and so darn cute.

“Well, I have never ever heard of a lizard named Sean before." I was smiling darn it, losing steam… Big Tim smiled too… they had me.

“Wanta hold him Mommeee?”

I looked down at the thing named Sean in the 3-foot long dessert reenactment... A tiny cricket was sitting on his back. He turned his head entirely around and with a lightning quick movement ate the cricket whole, well except for one errant leg hanging out of his mouth. Then that too was, GULP, gone. Shiver shiver…

“Not just now Bud.”

"Isn’t he AWESOME????” he looked up at me, mouth wide smile, eyes wider, arms extended up to the sky. He spun once and stared up at me expectantly, then peered back into check on his new friend Sean. “I love him. Thank you mommy and daddy.”



I looked at Tim. I shrugged and stared down at Pure Joy. Then glanced sideways at “Sean”… shiver.

And there you have it…Sean the Lizard … our newest family member… is awesome.