In December 2005, Philadelphia ran an excerpt from former WYSP DJ Anita Gevinson’s in-progress memoir of her years as Zevon’s girlfriend in 1980s:

Having Warren move in with me never crossed my mind before he brought it up. I had a life, I had a career, and I wasn’t looking to become anyone’s mother. I knew what it was like to live with him; I had seen firsthand how he treated his former wife, Crystal, seen him drunk and in his bathrobe, waving a pistol around like a turkey leg. So I didn’t even see it coming when one day he turned up on my doorstep at Le Chateau, my apartment on Rittenhouse Square, and said he wanted to move in. That was only partly true. I realize now that for him, Philadelphia was a place he could go where none of his friends could watch him the way they did back in L.A. They had staged interventions, there was shouting and shoving, people got pushed up against the wall. Increasingly it was becoming sadly apparent that he was no longer a functional alcoholic. He was just an alcoholic.

I admit I was a bad influence. My life with Warren started out as Bonnie and Clyde, and by the end it turned into Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Woolf? But I was only Liz on weekends. He was shitfaced Dick with the lampshade on his head every night of the week. And I covered for him because I loved him. I never told anyone how bad it got.

So instead of saying No, I think you moving in would be a bad idea, I said, We’ll need a bigger place. He set up the back bedroom with his instruments and recording gear and made it into his tree fort. I never went in there. He had his own bathroom, and he would keep his vodka in the cabinet under the sink. By now, he was guzzling it right out of the bottle, in secret. He’d call me at work, and I would put him on hold while I told tens of thousands of Philadelphians that we had just heard “Jukebox Hero” by Foreigner, and then I would have to explain to Mr. Excitable Boy how the toaster worked. The conversation from my end would sound like this: “No, honey, you push it down and it will pop up when it’s done. … I DON’T KNOW WHY IT’S BURNING — I’M AT WORK!”

Read the complete “Rittenhouse Square’s Excitable Boy” in our archives.

A.J. Daulerio, at the time a staff writer at Philadelphia, was at La Stalla restaurant in Newtown the night of the accident and witnessed the immediate aftermath. In his September 2007 piece “Sideswiped,” Daulerio investigated both his own memories and Patton and Demou’s stormy relationship:

Heather Demou and Richard Patton had only been dating for a little more than three months at the time of her death. Their relationship was no windswept romance. It grew out of the bar scene in Newtown and New Hope, one that, like similar ones in affluent suburban counties across America, is largely comprised of a mix of gym-happy divorcées, 20-something townies who’ve never moved away, and sleazy older men with striped shirts and gaudy watches, going back through adolescence, only this time with a better class of beverages.

On the day she died, Heather visited her friend Kathy Landman in Doylestown. Heather had been Kathy’s realtor. It was clear to Landman that Heather’s relationship with Patton was going south. Heather looked diminished, and said she was becoming “very uncomfortable” with the relationship. “There was a stain on her shirt, and she looked like she’d lost some weight,” Landman says. “There were these subtle differences about her that led me to believe something wasn’t right.”

Read the complete “Sideswiped” in our archives.

He wasn’t kidding. After the foodie blog Foobooz picked up my story, a visitor calling herself “Carol” commented on that site that Mims “had been embezzling thousands and thousands of dollars.” Keeping in mind the anonymity of the Internet, which makes a simple task of spreading rumors and making unsubstantiated accusations, I called Taylor to ask him if the comment was accurate. He responded, “This Carol person, I don’t know who she is, but she certainly knows what she’s talking about. There were some problems, and some things went missing.”

For his part, Mims calls the allegations “utterly untrue” and adds, “I’m surprised that Howard would say that. We’re not supposed to be trash-talking each other right now. It’s in the hands of the lawyers.”

Reached this morning on his cell phone, Mims declined to get into specifics, as did Taylor, but made it pretty clear that things aren’t exactly civil: “The lawyers are involved. It’s going to be a really ugly divorce.” He adds that he has a new project in the works but that he’s not a allowed to talk about it just yet due to a confidentiality agreement that he signed. So I guess Mims the word for now.

Andrew Dice Clay with Jim Florentine at the Borgata, August 23rd

Strengths: The Diceman is a gifted performer and one who still generates enough interest after all these years — during which he apparently spent some time managing a gym — to convince throngs of people to pay $65 a head to see him. He’s developed a strong character, a straight-talking misogynistic pig of a man that is easy to love or at least love to hate. We sit at the edge of our seats, waiting for him to say something that evokes a squirming “No he did not” response. And he’s updated his set a bit, getting away from the “Hickory dickory dock, some chick’s been sucking my cock” stuff and throwing in some post-’80s topics like cell phones (it’s true, you never do hear the other end of the “Can you hear me now?” conversation), Sex and the City (”that redhead, what’s her name? Morinda? Now that chick has some concave tits”), and the influence of internet porn on the modern woman (”If one more chick spits on my dick … what’s with that?”).

Weaknesses: For openers, let’s talk about the opener — one-time Jersey guy Jim Florentine, who warmed up the crowd a little bit too much. His material felt fresh and had the crowd in a pretty constant state of laughter. And he was plenty offensive, covering everything from gay marriage (gerbil visitation rights for divorced gay couples) to female hygiene (”So you’re telling me that you can smell the girl wearing Jay-Z perfume a thousand yards away but you can’t smell that?”). Typically, the opener is the one who has something to prove, and if Florentine had to prove anything, he certainly did.

But it was Dice who really had to come out and wow the crowd and show them that he still has it. But he doesn’t. And he didn’t. Mere seconds after Florentine left the stage, a lame light show accompanied EMF’s Unbelievable (a 1991 song that includes a Dice soundbite) until a characteristically black-clad Dice walked out and ended it with an also characteristic wrist-flick. His short set was funny at points, but his funniest material — on cell phones, on the endowment of black men — is easily viewable on YouTube, and certainly any real Dice fan (which is pretty much anyone who would pay $65) would have seen it. You know the punchline. He threatened to verbally take out a heckler, which we were all waiting for him to do, but he never followed through, appearing to lack the confidence to do it effectively, which is the only way to do it. And his impersonations — of Rocky, Pacino, and Sammy Davis Jr. — were half-assed and completely out of place (the Backstreet Boys dancing impersonation offered by ticket agent Michael Ely that night was much more entertaining). And why he succumbed to persistent heckles for the “Hickory Dickory” shtick, after which he abruptly and possibly prematurely ended the show, I’ll never know.

Verdict: Without a competent writing team and a director, this character is one that should be left in our ambivalent memories of the ’80s, like so many moussed hairdos.

Ross says there is no word yet on how many employees will be cut in the latest round of bloodletting or exactly when the blood will begin to flow.

PMH is currently involved in a forbearance agreement with its creditors that lasts through September 10th, which appears to be undermining the market’s confidence in the company. According to a Standard & Poor’s report, PMH’s loan was trading at 70 cents a dollar in early June, but is now trading in the mid-40s — a signal that the market believes PMH is in serious financial difficulty.

In the midst of this, DN publisher Mark Frisby is evidently taking a hands-on role in negotiations with the union; PMH publisher Brian P. Tierney has been absent from the talks. “We’re actually working together,” says Ross, “because we have to.”

In a new twist, the papers are said to be eyeing the ranks of newsroom managers for layoffs rather than reporters. “Our members have taken enough hits over the last couple of years,” says Ross, “and new management under Mark Frisby has realized there are layers and layers of management that haven’t been touched.”

In addition to layoffs, the papers are also expected to announce a plan to consolidate various newsroom positions — such as photographers and copy editors — at the Inquirer and Daily News sometime this fall. As might be expected, the rumor mill is churning out stories faster than the newsrooms are, including that old perennial Is the Daily News going under? “There was actually a rumor last week that the Inquirer would be folded into the Daily News,” says Ross, laughing. “It’s just rumors.” — Steve Volk

For a look back at the Lane saga, read “The Very Public Self-Destruction of Alycia Lane” in our archives.

By Jason Fagone

IT WAS MARCH 2003, and Vince Fumo should have been happy. He was Vince Fumo, after all, and his life had been an epic, unlikely success. When he was a kid, no one would have singled him out for greatness. He was runty and meek. He got beat up a lot. And yet his transformation from wedgie magnet to the Vince of Darkness, the most feared Democratic politician in the state, was the stuff of local legend and long magazine profiles. He was rich. He was powerful. He owned a 99.9-acre farm where he planned to raise alpacas, whose meat, he had heard, was very profitable.

And now, for the first time, it looked like Vince Fumo might soon be blessed with grandkids. Vince had three children. His 34-year-old son, Vincent E. Fumo II — named after his grandfather — and his eldest daughter, Nicole, 30, were products of his first marriage; Allie, 13, was a product of his second. Vincent II wasn’t married, but Nicole was preparing to tie the knot. She was a lithe brunette — no trace of the jowly, canine features that make Vince look like a bobblehead doll of himself. Her groom was an ex-football player at Penn State and a lawyer who had worked for Vince for almost five years. Christian Marrone was six-foot-three and 270 pounds. He had thick black eyebrows and slicked-back Pat Riley-type hair that was starting to thin a little on top. He was loud, ambitious and ballsy — ballsy enough, anyway, to have walked into Vince’s office to ask Vince for his daughter’s hand. The day it happened, Vince sent an e-mail to Nicole’s mother, Susan Meo:

Christian was just here and has asked for my permission to ask Nicole to marry him. He is already broke from buying her an engagement ring! … Well, we’ll see where this chapter in life now takes us! I hope to a happier place!

More than once, Vince had told Christian that he considered him to be like a son. And now Christian was marrying his daughter, making it official. There was only one problem, from Vince Fumo’s point of view: He wasn’t invited to the wedding.

Read the rest of “The Betrayal.”

Illustration by Rob Day, from the September 2008 issue of Philadelphia magazine.

By Jeff Silverman

ON THE LAST Friday of each September, the members of Merion Golf Club celebrate Bobby Jones’s ascension — on September 27, 1930, to be exact — from mere golfing legend to American cultural icon. Nestled in its leafy Ardmore enclave, Merion has witnessed much golfing glory through the years: No club has hosted more USGA national championships or been more central to the Jones fable. It was here that Jones, armed with immeasurable talent and a putter named Calamity Jane, walked away from the awards presentation — into retirement, myth and divinity — with his fifth, and final, U.S. Amateur title. With it came the Grand Slam sweep of golf’s four major titles all in the same calendar year — something no one has managed to do since.

So members annually convene to mark the moment. After lunch and a round of foursomes, they change into black tie for a traditional march, led by a bagpiper, out to the first fairway, across Ardmore Avenue, past the plaque on the 11th tee commemorating Jones’s triumph, ending at the spot on the hill where Jones hit his final approach. Champagne is hoisted. The president offers a toast.

Merion’s members are understandably proud of their club, its history, its tradition, and its significance; its wicker-basket flag sticks, its shrubby Scotch broom, its 18th fairway, where with a one-iron Ben Hogan launched one of the most famous shots in golf to propel him toward improbable victory in the 1950 U.S. Open. It’s one of only two clubs in the country anointed National Historic Landmarks, and its premiere East Course, perennially ranked among the world’s finest, is revered. “Acre for acre,” Jack Nicklaus, loser of the ’71 Open in a playoff at Merion, once observed, “it may be the best test of golf in the world.”

Read the full story on phillymag.com.

In 10 Words or Less … There’s one fewer King Crimson fan in this world.

Strengths … The best thing that King Crimson has going for it at this point is its members’ reputations and pedigrees. Founder/guitarist Robert Fripp is a mad genius (you’d know his work from his bizzare collaborations with Brian Eno and David Bowie’s Heroes). Fans view the enigmatic Peter Gabriel-collaborator Tony Levin, who either plays something called a Chapman Stick or a bass with dowels attached to his flying fingers, as some sort of mystical musical shaman. And don’t forget frontman/guitarist Adrian Belew, who has worked with such notable folks as Frank Zappa, Talking Heads, Tori Amos, and Nine Inch Nails. And then there is Crimson’s massively impressive catalog of indiosyncratic, logarithm rock. All of this should add up to a brilliant night of live music. And it certainly used to, based on the several times I’ve seen Crimson over the years. For examples, check out this TV performance of “Elephant Talk” and this 1995 take on “Red.”

Weaknesses … So what you also need to know about Robert Fripp is that he is one peculiar little English prick. Fans like to exchange stories about how Fripp goes out of his way to avoid any interaction with them. No autographs. No pictures. Never. At the Keswick show, security made a huge point of “no cell phones, no cameras.” No cell phones? Are you kidding me? But that’s nothing compared to Fripp’s new level of withdraw: He is completely enshrouded by his stacks of equipment and is invisible to the audience, with the exception of his little head — topped by big old black headphones that further separate him from the rest of the people in the room and onstage — which occasionally moves. He could be back there checking his stocks or downloading porn for all we know. But hey, lots of “artists” are “eccentric,” and for years, we’ve been forgiving of Fripp’s persona (or attracted to it) because the music has been so damn good. No longer. The performance was imprecise, lackluster, and laughably horrible at times, as Belew’s glares and shaking head certainly acknowledged.

Verdict … I’m sorry to the guy from down South who was eating bread dosed with liquid acid at Glenside’s Plush before the show. He made some comment about King Crimson being “rusty.” I assumed he had just lost one too many brain cells to render any kind of credible opinion. I was wrong. As was King Crimson. So wrong.

ILLUSTRATION: From the band’s 1969 debut, In the Court of the Crimson King