I hope you all are boycotting the Inquirer per Philebrity’s recent posts. I know I am. But now the folks at Philebrity are thinking it may be time to take the protest off the webpages and onto the streets (just how I like it :P)
“What we wanna know is, how many of you would be up for an actual protest outside the Inky building, say, Friday at noon? If we get the sense that enough of you care, we’ll start putting it into motion. What do you think?”‘
Here’s what I think, Philebrity. I think it’s a great idea. Anyone else in? (Because you know you secretly want to shout “John Yoo MUST go!” outside the Inquirer building. Come on.)
Read more about John Yoo in this article. Or this one. Or just go directly to the source, Will Bunch’s Attywood blog.
Recently visited the new Barney’s Co-op on Rittenhouse. It’s lovely. And every single piece in there costs more than my rent does. Which led me to ask: How do gals my age afford that swag? I know why I can’t. I’m a soon-to-be dirt poor grad student who works various low-paying but fulfilling nonprofit/teaching part-time jobs. But what is everyone else doing? You know who I’m talking about, those twenty-something chicks with the Givenchy shoes, Balenciaga handbags and those Stella McCartney dresses.
My theories? Continue reading
(Not me, btw. Another brown gal.)
If you’re free Thursday night, check out Falu’s show at the North Star Bar. (Thanks to P.G. reader A.S. for sharing this.)
Who’s Falu you ask?
Sepia Mutiny says it best:
Don’t think PG would go to the beach (while you plod away in your airless cubicle) without at least bringing back some photos!
And I didn’t get to write the fifth chapter in my novel. Here’s what happened:
Maybe this is my fault for trying to be cool and writer-ish, but tonight I thought I would go to a “real” cafe and try my hand at some book-writin.’ And some blog postin.’ Seeing as I haven’t been able to buy Internet yet (*coughs “Comcast”) and my neighbor’s wireless signal disappeared, I decided tonight was the perfect time to bike over to Chapter House, a cafe and gallery on 9th Street that many of my “artiste” friends go to and that I’ve always wanted to hang out at.
I lock my bike. I rush inside. Look at the clock. It’s 9PM. The guy behind the desk tells me they’re open for another hour. That gives me an hour to write. I threw my bag on the table nearest to an outlet and go to the counter. I’m not the kind of person who uses a cafe’s wireless Internet without at least buying something.
Me: “Do you take debit cards?”
Clerk: “Yes, but there’s a $10 minimum. But there are two ATMs around the corner from here.”
Me: [Deciding the amount of time it would take me to get money + ATM surcharge fee = not worth it.] That’s okay, I’ll just get $10 worth of stuff.
And that’s when it got ugly. Continue reading