PHILLY
EVENTSProfile: The Gray Revolution
There’s no picture of Ed Rendell, but that relationship goes back to 1976, when Lynn was assistant athletic director at Penn. She ran an alumni council; Ed, being the big athletic supporter that he is, went to every meeting. Later, when Ed was mayor and Lynn sat on the board of the Prince Music Theater, he tried to persuade her to move the Prince to the planned Kimmel Center. “I said to him, ‘That’s not the right spot for us,’” recalls Lynn. “And he was angry.” But he didn’t hold the grudge. After he became governor, he appointed Joe to the board of PennVest, the state agency that lends billions of dollars to municipalities to improve their sewage systems.
One time, Ed teasingly told Lynn he had a picture of her daughter on his desk.
“Excuse me?”
Not to worry, Lynnie. It was a picture of Wendy teaching Ed’s son Jesse how to dribble a basketball.
And just how did Joe become an early supporter of Michael Nutter, which led to his days and nights of service on the zoning board? Their relationship goes back to the mid-1990s. Joe was on the Lower Merion board, and “Michael” (as Joe calls him) was the Philadelphia city councilman from Wynnefield. (Coincidentally, Joe’s rabbi, Henry Cohen, lived in the other half of the twin occupied by Nutter.) Joe and Michael reached out to each other to solve problems on their dividing line, City Avenue. The cooperation led to the establishment of the City Avenue Special Services District in 1998. And because Joe is such a connector, he invited Michael and his wife out to dinner. Joe recalls how they approached the restaurant from opposite directions; just as he was about to shout “Michael!,” Lynn is shouting “Lisa!” The women knew each other from their days at Penn.
Joe Manko puts his head in his hands. “It’s such a small town!”
NO, IT's NOT. It’s a big city of 1.5 million people, and most of its residents are freaked out by its sheer size. Maybe they feel part of a teeny slice of Philadelphia, a block or a bar or a rugby team or a gallery scene. But the idea of the entire city as one community? Come on. Only a guy who’s spent seven decades here, and knows so many people in so many different ways, could say that. Only a Joe Manko.
Only a Joe Manko would even consider a Second Act after the way the First Act ended. There was the long-running Barnes fiasco (should it stay or should it go?) that got really ugly when Richard Glanton sued the board of commissioners and its members, alleging racial discrimination. “You spend your whole life trying to better your community, and now you sue me as a racist? That was the worst,” Joe says. Yes, even worse than the Ardmore fiasco. The board was worried that the center of Ardmore was going to pot, so it came up with a redevelopment plan, part of which called for the demolition of 11 older buildings. It didn’t matter that the board pledged to relocate the businesses in those buildings (most especially, a popular Chinese restaurant) to the redeveloped space; people got pissed off. One guy came to a board meeting and pelted the commissioners with coins, calling them “Judases” for selling out Ardmore to developers. Oy. Only Joe would turn that into an impetus for civic engagement. “Don’t complain,” he says. “Get involved.” Although, he acknowledges: “Nobody walks up to people involved and says, ‘Thank you.’”
One time, Ed teasingly told Lynn he had a picture of her daughter on his desk.
“Excuse me?”
Not to worry, Lynnie. It was a picture of Wendy teaching Ed’s son Jesse how to dribble a basketball.
And just how did Joe become an early supporter of Michael Nutter, which led to his days and nights of service on the zoning board? Their relationship goes back to the mid-1990s. Joe was on the Lower Merion board, and “Michael” (as Joe calls him) was the Philadelphia city councilman from Wynnefield. (Coincidentally, Joe’s rabbi, Henry Cohen, lived in the other half of the twin occupied by Nutter.) Joe and Michael reached out to each other to solve problems on their dividing line, City Avenue. The cooperation led to the establishment of the City Avenue Special Services District in 1998. And because Joe is such a connector, he invited Michael and his wife out to dinner. Joe recalls how they approached the restaurant from opposite directions; just as he was about to shout “Michael!,” Lynn is shouting “Lisa!” The women knew each other from their days at Penn.
Joe Manko puts his head in his hands. “It’s such a small town!”
NO, IT's NOT. It’s a big city of 1.5 million people, and most of its residents are freaked out by its sheer size. Maybe they feel part of a teeny slice of Philadelphia, a block or a bar or a rugby team or a gallery scene. But the idea of the entire city as one community? Come on. Only a guy who’s spent seven decades here, and knows so many people in so many different ways, could say that. Only a Joe Manko.
Only a Joe Manko would even consider a Second Act after the way the First Act ended. There was the long-running Barnes fiasco (should it stay or should it go?) that got really ugly when Richard Glanton sued the board of commissioners and its members, alleging racial discrimination. “You spend your whole life trying to better your community, and now you sue me as a racist? That was the worst,” Joe says. Yes, even worse than the Ardmore fiasco. The board was worried that the center of Ardmore was going to pot, so it came up with a redevelopment plan, part of which called for the demolition of 11 older buildings. It didn’t matter that the board pledged to relocate the businesses in those buildings (most especially, a popular Chinese restaurant) to the redeveloped space; people got pissed off. One guy came to a board meeting and pelted the commissioners with coins, calling them “Judases” for selling out Ardmore to developers. Oy. Only Joe would turn that into an impetus for civic engagement. “Don’t complain,” he says. “Get involved.” Although, he acknowledges: “Nobody walks up to people involved and says, ‘Thank you.’”
Posted by Anonymous | May. 28, 2008 at 8:13 AM