Wing Bowl: Is It Time to End It?

Scenes from recent Wing Bowls. Photos, clockwise from top left: Sportsradio 94WIP; Alejandro A. Alvarez/Daily News; Associated Press

Scenes from recent Wing Bowls. Photos (clockwise from top left): Sportsradio 94WIP; Alejandro A. Alvarez/Daily News; Associated Press

Early one Friday morning last January, I was surrounded by roughly 20,000 screaming fans, an army of half-naked women, and an effigy of Ruben Amaro. High above on the scoreboard video screen, a clip played on repeat. The image: a guy projectile vomiting. On the same floor where Allen Iverson once thrilled, where the Flyers nearly won their third Stanley Cup just five years ago, a bunch of dudes (and one very intimidating woman) were shoving chicken wings down their pie-holes as fast as they could. The crowd cheered, mostly in hopeful anticipation of someone puking.
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Moonstone Preschool: The Bella Vista Toddlertopia Your Kid Can’t Get Into

Photography by Trevor Dixon

Photography by Trevor Dixon

Danielle Baker stared at the sheet of paper in her hand.

There were more than 150 parents squeezed together in a too-small room for the school’s annual October open house — Danielle had heard that if you didn’t go to the open house, you had zero chance of getting in. Apparently, the other parents had heard that as well. Shit, Danielle thought. The parents had their heads down, and were desperately reading the paper the teachers had just handed out. In all, the school would receive 158 applications for the following fall. There were 38 spots available.
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John and Bonnie Raines: The Whistleblowers Whose 1971 FBI Raid Anticipated Edward Snowden

John and Bonnie Raines, photographed by Wesley Mann

John and Bonnie Raines, photographed by Wesley Mann

John Raines sat in the family station wagon, parked in a dark lot on the Swarthmore campus, waiting to see if his wife would return to him, or if police lights would appear, flashing doom. In years past, he and Bonnie had sat together on this same front seat, three kids lining the back bench, and driven to his parents’ vacation house near Lake Michigan. Even now, back in Germantown, those three children slept soundly. Would they wake to find empty spaces where their parents used to be? Raines passed a couple of hours like this, his mind a crazy haze of worry, till finally a car drew near and he realized that it was Bonnie.

The night of March 8, 1971, had passed so slowly. Now he needed to speed up. Raines flung open his door, popped the trunk, and helped transfer four heavy suitcases from this arriving car to his own — all part of their meticulous getaway plan. Once Bonnie was beside him in the passenger seat, he drove, glancing anxiously in the rearview mirror.

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What’s Your Problem With Michael Nutter, Philadelphia?

Photograph by Neal Santos

Photograph by Neal Santos

Michael Nutter has recently finished his second glass of sangria at a soul-food joint on South Street when he starts talking about Donovan McNabb. The precise reason for the name-drop isn’t particularly relevant. What follows, more so. “I think he, as some other athletes, has a complicated relationship with Philadelphia,” Nutter begins, shaking his head.

He goes on: “This is a tough town.” He repeats himself: “This is a tough town.” Then he repeats himself again: “Tough town, tough town.”

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The Philadelphia Mayor’s Race 2015: Assessing the Candidates

From left: Terry Gillen, Darrell Clarke, Lynne Abraham, Ken Trujillo, and Anthony Williams.

From left: Terry Gillen, Darrell Clarke, Lynne Abraham, Ken Trujillo, and Anthony Williams.

There is, already, a bored, obligatory quality to Philadelphia’s 2015 mayoral election. The candidates underwhelm. Public interest is running low. For all its outsize influence in the past, City Hall today feels a little less domineering.

I had lunch with a smart, engaged guy the other day, a young(ish) Turk in Philly’s huge nonprofit sector, who told me he was past tired of talking and thinking about which Big Papa we should pick to rescue the city this time. “This is our problem,” he told me, “this daddy complex.”

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The Best Hair Stylists in Philadelphia

The stylists of Salon Vanity at work. Photograph by Joseph Balestra.

The stylists of Salon Vanity at work. Photograph by Joseph Balestra

There are many, many great stylists in this city and its ’burbs. And most of the greats can do anything you ask them to, and do it well. But the trick to true hair happiness is a little more complex, isn’t it? You don’t just want someone who’s great; you want someone intuitively attuned to your exact hair issues.

And that, reader, is what you’ll find here: 45 excellent stylists, each with a special knack for dealing with one issue or another, from cutting crazy curls to eliminating those wiry grays to helping with thinning hair, and beyond. We’ve also got the scoop on the five man-cuts that can instantly update a look, the secrets behind the city’s best heads of hair, the Center City salon that’s bringing back the perm … and more.

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The Best Men’s Haircuts in Philadelphia

No offense, man, but look around: The average Philadelphia woman has you beat when it comes to keeping her hair looking modern and fresh. But there’s an easy fix. Here, our panel of man-hair experts tells you what you’re doing wrong, and how to get maximum improvement with minimal effort.

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How Jefferson’s Stephen Klasko Intends to Fix Our Screwed-Up Health-Care System

The new president and CEO spent nearly $4 million to rename SEPTA’s Market East Station — the highest-profile move to date in his bid to make Jefferson into a paragon of medical entrepreneurialism. Photograph by Dustin Fenstermacher

The new president and CEO spent nearly $4 million to rename SEPTA’s Market East Station — the highest-profile move to date in his bid to make Jefferson into a paragon of medical entrepreneurialism. Photograph by Dustin Fenstermacher

It’s mid-morning on a scorching late-summer day, but comfortable in a climate-controlled subterranean corridor covered in tile the shade of a ripe avocado. Stephen K. Klasko, M.D., MBA, looks up at the ceiling under Market Street and seems to realize that in a not at all metaphoric way, his grasp might exceed his reach.

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Home for the Holidays

Photograph by Clint Blowers

Photograph by Clint Blowers

“Why in the hell are we doing this again?”

I ask my husband this question every single year on the night before we pack our minivan to drive the seven hours it takes to get to my parents’ house in time for dinner on Christmas Eve. I pose it at some point between the hours of 9:30 p.m. and 2 a.m., while we drink alcoholic beverages containing nothing even remotely festive — no cranberry, no peppermint, no nog of any kind — and sit on the floor in our family room, dutifully wrapping presents for our three little girls.

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How Bill Cosby Took Down Bill Cosby

bill-cosby-rape-allegations-940

One April morning in 2006, I left a note for Bill Cosby at the back gate of his mansion that commands a five-acre spread in Elkins Park. It was an act of desperation. I was writing a profile of him, and I couldn’t get Cosby to respond to me. Sticking the note in his fence — I didn’t venture past the stern NO TRESPASSING warning to walk down his long driveway and knock on his door — is one of those silly moves writers make so they can say to their editors, “Hey, I tried.”

Then, a couple days later, I got a call.

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